


The Process

by Soupernabturel



Series: Working the Process [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Police, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Camera man Alfie, Cop Castiel, Documentaries, Experimental Style, Explicit sexuality, Filming and Cameras, Flirty Dean, Forbidden Love (Kindasorta), Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Inspired by Jail Las Vegas (TV), Inspired by Vegas Strip (TV), Jail, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, POV Outsider, Police Officer Castiel, Prostitute Dean, Prostitution, Protective Castiel, Reality TV, Secret Relationship, Sex Worker Dean, Sex Worker Education and Rights, Slow Burn, not dean or cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-18 08:40:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 66,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13678191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soupernabturel/pseuds/Soupernabturel
Summary: “Dean, hands to yourself please.”The man in question straightens up in his chair, turns his flirty smile from the man two seats from him and onto officer Novak. “Sorry, Cas.”“Cas?” Hannah asks.“We get some regulars. They come to know a few of the officers, the patrol officers, especially.” Novak explains, the look on his face, almost slightly bored, slips a little. “As you know, I’m usually the one monitoring the Strip.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My fic for Valentines Day! 
> 
> Police!Officer Cas is being filmed at work (A-la: Jail Las Vegas) for a reality TV show. Meanwhile Dean is a sex worker, not only familiar with the Strip’s booking process, but with a certain blue-eyed officer.
> 
> This was utterly and unashamedly inspired by my reality TV guilty pleasure, _Jail: Las Vegas _, and _Vegas Strip___ which I am also endlessly frustrated by
> 
>  
> 
> _As always **Unedited, unbeated, unread**_  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Officers are forced to take drastic measures when an unruly night of suspects leads to chaos. A hidden weapon makes its way into the county with dire consequences. Officers arrest a tearful drunk driver.

_After arrest and before trial comes jail_

_All suspects are innocent until proven guilty in a court of law_

 

___________

 

“Working in booking, you can be going ‘long, having a nice smooth night, nobody giving you any problems, then suddenly, things just jump off and you have to jump off—ah, shit.”

“It’s okay,” Hannah says, though Alfie’s sure he’s not the only one who can hear the sigh in their voice. He takes the moment of reprieve where Hannah stands and heads towards Officer Donahue, talking in their calming, almost-right-near-the-edge Producer tone.

“It’s okay,” they repeat, motioning behind for a bottle of water. “You’re doing well. Just, try not to sound so scripted, we just want your natural thoughts, your gut responses.”

Donahue takes the bottle the PA—Andy offers him, skulls it like man in a desert. He wipes an arm across his mouth after, gasps. “Yeah, yeah okay.”

He looks wound up enough, here, on their…tenth—Alfie has to think for a moment—take, that’s he’s going to collapse back onto the eggshell white, jailhouse wall behind him and cry. Alife takes the second of reprieve to drop the crew camera off his shoulder. God, they couldn’t bring a stand in this narrow of a hallway at the risk of obstructing _in case of emergencies_ , but still, his shoulder _aches._

Alfie just isn’t equipped enough to deal with a crying officer of the law.

“It’s okay.” Donahue tries as Hannah hovers over him. “Nervous,’ he says. “Just nervous. Never been on TV before.”

“Never gonna be if you keep fucking up,” Alfie hears Andy mutter. He has to adjust his hold on his gear, palms getting sweaty as it takes everything in him not to laugh.

Hannah shoots them both a disappointed look. “It’s fine.” They say, but make the wrapping up motion. Andy steps back and Alfie rights himself, hoisting the camera up, up, it clunks into position. Alfie swears, he’s going to walk lopsided for weeks after this gig. Maybe permanently damaged.

It’s his first shot at filming TV, reality TV, and he hadn’t expected the hours, but this is his shot. _Jail Las Vegas_ reaches millions of TV’s and screens across the nation and Alfie’s camera is going to be showed right there in the credits.

He can’t fuck this up.

Officer Donahue doesn’t give a damn about Alfie’s career and life ambitions, but at least he doesn’t look like he’s gonna throw up anymore.

Hannah moves out of the shot and motions Alfie forward to film. “Okay,” they say, "just…take us through it again, just tell us, what your working role here is like? Do you find it, unpredictable?”

Officer Donahue takes a deep, shaky breath, stares barrel straight at Hannah before they gesture for him to look back into the camera. “Oh, alrighty, okay, uh, working in the Clark County Detention Centre’s like—”

Alfie uses his whole upper body to center Donahue’s in frame.

“Working booking, it’s unpredictable. You can be going about your shift, having a nice smooth night—”

 

___________

 

The hours of filming, Alfie is sure, are going to kill him.

At 2AM, and he’s heard the phrase _working the process_ enough times that the words have sunken below his skin and then been summon back out to rise as some sort of trap stamp.

Okay, so he’s possibly, definitely, sleep deprived.

“Working the process,” an officer whose tall, chiseled—c’mon, Alfie _has_ to notice. He’s not _blind_ — says for the hundredth billionth time. “For a lot of these people is quite literally a process. They see a trip to jail as, paying taxes, we have some people coming in and out weekly, nightly even—”

Unlike Donahue Officer Novak is only robotic in front of the camera and not downright awful. Though judging from how Alfie’s been seeing him move around the jail while he’s not under the lens (with a steel rod in his spine and a slack, steely expression with that pouty moue and bags under his eyes...doesn't sound hot but somehow is?) that professionalism might just be a primary facet of his character. A consequence of the job.

A little like Hannah in that respect, when they next break to fuel up, Alfie might tell them that.

Or maybe he might keep that to himself and also keep his job, anyway.

“Why do you think that is?” Hannah prompts, always working off camera, always getting those key responses that play well for the ad breaks, keep the audiences coming in. “That you get so many repeat offenders?”

Officer Novak cocks his head a bit, as though thinking seriously on the answer. It’s interesting how, now that they’re in the—for lack of a better term—waiting room with a whole myriad of people (most in various states of inebriation, a lot scantily dressed, some even injured), that Officer Novak can look so collected, so in control of his environment.

He's thinking serious about the answer, Alfie realises after a moment, which is honestly a nice change of pace from either the blurted-out bullshit or the rehearsed bullshit other officers have been offering them tonight.

“I suppose there are a lot of factors.” Novak begins. “Primarily, prostitution—”

Hannah shoots Alfie a look when he fumbles the camera. Novak’s polite enough to wait a little bit for Alfie to collect steady himself before repeating. God what time is it, almost three in the morning?

“As I said there’s…solicitation, homelessness, we have our nightly drunk tank almost always at capacity, that’s the nature of the strip. Trespassing is guaranteed, general buffoonery.”

Officer Novak is the only man who can say buffoonery and still be taken completely seriously.

“Would you say that, if people cannot handle the culture and the party nature of the strip appropriately, then they should be staying home?” asks Hannah.

“Yes.”

“Can you paraphrase what I’ve said within your answer?”

“Yes, I, I would say that, if you can’t handle the Las Vegas strip then you should…stay home.”

“MmmmHmmm.”

The woman that hums is in belly chains. She’s the closest detainee and she’s wearing barely anything at all. Her waist cuffs loop lazily around her bare orange tanned hips.

“Elizabeth,” Officer Novak says, forgetting the crew and the camera’s completely as he turns. 'Elizabeth', is sitting so far forward on her seat, eyes glued to them she’s practically on the floor. “Back against the seat Elizabeth. Have you finished removing all your piercings?"

Alfie’s got enough of a handle on this now that he follows Novak, catching on film as Elizabeth moves to comply but does so with a gooey smirk on her face.

“I’m getting there,” she says, waving Novak off. “Hang on.”

The removal of all her jewelry, little studs and bars in places Alfie didn’t even know could be pierced, is, in and of itself, a process. Novak monitors the whole thing with what could almost be called a bored expression.

“Do you have any piercings beneath your clothes?” he asks her, which wakes Alfie up a little. “Any nipple piercings?”

“Oh no, _hell_ no." Elizabeth says, as she sits back, exposing, yep... no underwear. Alfie turns away, but, he _has to he has to_ keep the camera focused. They can blur that out in post.  
  
“I wanna be able to have sensation in my titties.” Elizabeth says and gropes herself.

Alfie is too tired for this.

It appears, on some level, so is Novak. “That’s...important. Yes.” He says, but offers nothing more as Elizabeth goes about removing the last of her jewelry, being a little more touchy feely, Alfie thinks, than is strictly necessary.

Hannah is asking a question of Elizabeth, whether she’s uncomfortable dressed so with a male officer watching over her.

Elizabeth actually laughs, waves a hand. "Oh, we don’t worry about Blue Eyes like that. He’s good people.”

“Blue eyes?” Hannah asks with interest, turning to Novak.

Novak seems as though, if he were out of uniform, with different people, he would roll his eyes. “Working out on the strip, I have been, uh, given a sort of moniker, by a lot of the, um, workers.”

“Why Blue Eyes? It’s not a particularly _unique_ quality." Hannah asks.

Alfie notices they themselves have blue eyes too, they are right it’s not exactly a stand out attribute to identify a cop by.

“Cos them orbs are so damn pretty,” says a deep, male voice from two rows back.

“ _Dean_ ,” Elizabeth cackles, spinning in her seat to see the assailant.

Where Alfie’s eyes go, the camera follows and boy does the camera love the man dressed in the tight fitting black Tee, flannel and jeans. Dean (though Alfie can’t help but think Adonis is more fitting) looks to be painted to perfection itself, even if his clothes are a little ratty, holes in his jeans, the print on his shirt faded (that’s good, he supposes, might help out the editors in post if it’s so faded they don’t have to blur out any labels).

Dean's chiseled, lightly scruffed jaw, is tilted up, he has green eyes, lashes for days, lips for a lifetime. Alfie’s secure enough in his pansexuality to know that Dean makes his knees feel like jelly, with just a look, and he’s not even _looking_ at Alfie.

He’s looking at Novak.

“C’mon now Blue Eyes, don’t be shy,” Dean says, hands (also in chains and cuffed) are folded over his lap, he sits with his legs spread. There’s a small faded tear in the inner thigh of his jeans, showing off skin.  “It’s a compliment.”

“It’s a hindrance.” Novak corrects but he does so mildly, speaking directly to Dean before he turns a little and addresses Hannah/the camera. “When the girls see me out on the strip, they recognize me. They know to run. As I’m looking for them, they’re on the lookout for me.”

“You saying you can’t outrun a girl in six inch heels Cas?” Dean asks.

It’s strangely captivating, how Dean is just calling out to Officer Novak as though he’s run into a friend in the grocery store, jovial and at ease, and Novak is responding.

“No.”

Dean leans forward in his seat a little. “Think you could outrun me?”

“In six inch heels?” Novak prompts, Dean shrugs. “Potentially.”

Dean is even more devastating when he smiles. His laugh is melodic.

“We’ll have to test it some time. I got some heels lying around back at my place.”

“Women’s heels?” Elizabeth slurs a little.

Dean’s eyes drop from Novak for the first time, Alfie catches the way his demeanor changes on film. It’s only the slightest of changes, a tiny straightening of the spine, the crinkles by the corner of his eyes, revealing some age, smoothing out a little.

“They’re mine, I brought em, got some of em even made for me.” The easy smirk returns to his plush lips. But there's some tension there. “Ain’t nothing woman about ‘em, sweetheart.”

Elizabeth is still tispy, or drunk or drugged enough so that when she rolls her eyes back, Aflie’s worried for a moment for her safety, thinking she’ll never be able to bring them back.

“Ugh, c’mon Wifey, lighten the fuck _up_.”

Dean frowns, opens his mouth—

Elizabeth’s name is called however, and without a backwards glance or the slightest acknowledgement to either of them, Novak reaches down and takes her arm, bringing her and her handful of piercings up to the front booths to move through the process.

As they’re moving on to set up some more shots, Alfie can see Hannah’s expression, it may not be a smile, but there’s an easiness to their shoulders that conveys struck gold. Alfie knows they love it when a real personality is unearthed in amongst all the regular, drunken drudgery.

 

____________

 

Wifey--Alfie comes to regrettably learn as it sounds remarkably like his own name--is a term for people who take young girls, and less often boys under their wing on the streets to show them the ropes of prostitution.

Hannah, with a gleam in their eye, privately asks after Dean while Alfie hovers to the side with the studios camera.

Alfie's paycheck couldn't afford a camera like  _this._

"Oh, Dean?"Sergeant Hendrickson repeats. “Wifey, yeah, he gets around. He’s a veteran, if he was in the military, he’d have stripes and stars all up on him." 

 

____________

 

Hannah's running through with Captain Mills the possibility of joining some of her team out on patrol when Alfie, setting up some establishing shots, hears Novak call out.

“Dean, hands to yourself please.”

Dean turns a flirty smile to another man two seats from him, away, straightens up in his chair then flashes all coyness to Novak. “Sorry, Cas.”

Hannah turns to Officer Novak. “Cas?”

The look Novak holds on his face, almost slightly bored, slips a little. He tosses Dean one last, _withering_ look, then straightens his lapel, turning to Hannah.

“We get some regulars here, like Dean. They come to know a few of the officers, the patrol officers, especially.” Novak explains. “As you know, I’m usually the one monitoring the Strip.”

It seems, whatever part of that Hannah’s brain has chosen to cling onto has decided it’s of enough interest to follow up, as after a few shots and scenes in the drunk tank, they shuffle Alfie back in to the waiting room, and up to Dean, still in his seat in the corner, still a little separate, eating from his tray ravenously.

Hannah sits instead of standing, that in itself something of a novelty and more so a signpost of just how late it is and how long they’ve been here rather than on how comfortable Hannah feels with this, surprisingly _normal_ looking prostitute.

Alife shakes his head a little at the end of that thought, even having some sort of hyper real, stereotypical image of a prostitute in his mind, regardless of gender, is not something Alfie feels entirely comfortable having. Of course Dean looks normal (though unfairly pretty) he’s a person, prostitutes are _people._

Alfie needs to ask Hannah if he can go out an get some coffee soon, maybe after the next talking head.

“People always complain about the trays here.” Dean is saying, while stuffing his face. “But, they ain’t so bad. I mean look, you got your proteins, your fruits, carbohydrates and best of all, got me some pudding.” Dean lifts his pudding and smiles a food-stuffed smile, that is _only_ charming on someone like him, and disgusting, Alfie thinks, on anyone else.

“You eat here often enough to have an opinion on the food?” Hannah asks indelicately.

Alfie winces.  
  
Dean’s smile drops. He shifts his tray off his knees and rubs his hands down his thighs. “Can you guys uhh, blur faces and shit? I know I got a pretty mug.” Alfie feels bad for the guy, and feels worse for being the guy pointing a camera right at him. “But, umm—”

“Shy?” Hannah asks, uncharacteristically coy.

Dean huffs a laugh. “Nah, I can’t be on TV though.” He shrugs, speaks to his hands that are twisting over one another. “I got a lil’brother, y’know? And for his friends or something to see this shit? That’d be embarrassing for him.”

Hannah is kind enough to let him off the hook. “We can blur faces in post.” They say. “Can we keep talking with you?”

Dean nods, instantly looking more at ease.

With permission, Hannah goes right for the jugular. “Does he know that you’re a prostitute?” they ask, then elaborate for Dean’s questioning expression. “Your brother?”

Alfie’s camera catches every minute twitch and shift of Dean’s face.

“Hey, what about all that innocent until proven guilty crap?” he laughs, but it’s pained. Then his head turns, something catching his attention at the far end of the room. “Hey, you heading out on DP Cas?” 

 

____________

 

“Going out on DP, direct patrol.” Hendrickson tells the camera. “Is mostly just catch and release.”

Alfie learns that, like most of the people here in the Clark County Detention Centre’s, Dean has charges for trespassing and solicitation.

“Multiple priors for solicitation, trespassing, we keep updating him and the girls in the system.”

“95 percent of the problems we face out on the strip are prostitution.” Officer Hanscum confirms with a sad frown as she stirs sugar into her coffee. “It’s just, relatively easy money here. Or seen as such. Most see it as their only choice. But it's _not._ "

“We have a zero tolerance for prostitution on the Las Vegas boulevard.” Hendrickson instills, and that seems to be the end of that.

 

_____________

 

With Dean calling out to him, Officer Novak comes over, he hesitates a moment, catching sight of Hannah, Alfie and his camera, but continues anyway, though with some noticeable stiffness.

Alfie adjusts his holds, brings the lens back enough so he gets Novak, standing, Dean chained and sitting all in the same shot. 

“Toils of working the night shift.” Novak reaches down to the empty seat beside Dean, picks up his paperwork with an easy familiarity, then flips through it. “Though I suppose I shall be seeing you out there in a couple of hours?”

The question is almost teasing. 

Dean leans back in his seat, his fidgeting hands quelled as he folds his arms over his chest, as much as he can with them chained to his waist. “Nah, you know me Cas, I’m a homebody. Once you’ve got me booked, I’ll be heading right home. Snuggle into my bed, dunno, maybe watch some Netflix. Have some soup.”

Novak quirks and eyebrow. “Soup?”

“What, man? I make a good soup.” Dean kicks one leg out so he can fold it over the other, making himself comfortable. “You should come by, I’ll give ya some. Tomato rice, it’s got everything. Kills with some crusty bread,” he looks forlornly to his jail tray. “Man, I’ve ruined my own dinner.”

The smile Novak is wearing is a small and private thing, one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and exposes his gums. There but gone in a flash, and by virtue of being behind the camera, Alfie knows where to direct his eye, knows what to watch for and how to capture it.

He notes the way Novak glances at him, directs his attention back to Dean while setting down his papers. “Good night Dean.” Novak says, polite but distant.

Dean blinks, taken aback by the sudden departure. "Ah sure, night Ca-officer."

Yet, as Novak travels past him, Dean reaches out a hand. “Hey, hey Cas, one sec.”

Novak freezes, head to toe, yanking his arm back, Dean flinches in his seat but recovers quickly, bringing his hands back then sitting on them. “Sorry, Sir” he says.

Novak glances at the camera, wearing a complicated expression, he looks away.

Maybe sensing he’s losing him, Dean hurries. “Hey, so uh, Krissy’s out tonight.”

This captures Novak's attention, though his tone can only be described as disappointed. “Dean—”

“Hey, I know, I couldn’t stop her. You know how them girls are with PI’s breathing down their necks. I’m not her dad or nothing and the girls she hangs out with. Just,” Dean scrubs a hand over his face, up through his hair, till he’s gripping the back of his neck. It's awkward with the chains. “If you see her, give her a scare or something alright? If you can manage it. I mean, I know you’ve got your hands full...”

“I’ll look out for her.”  Novak assures softly. “But if I catch her on the strip, it's past curfew—”

Dean laughs though it’s pained. “Who knows? Maybe a night in here could do her some good, not that ya’ll ain’t lovely, non scary people.” He winks at Novak, but looks more assured nonetheless. “But y’know, anyways, thank you, Cas. I’ll be seeing ya.”

For a moment, Alfie’s absolutely sure that Novak’s about to reach out to Dean, and assure him of something. He looks almost as though he’s going to say goodbye, but then again, Alfie feels the officer's eyes move to him, catch with his own, with the camera’s lens, and in the next moment with silence, Novak is gone.

 

_____________

 

Some people may think it’s interesting, spending hours and hours filming and being within a Las Vegas jailhouse, and it is to a certain extent, but as with any job, especially with any job including hulking large equipment and keeping alert for long periods of time, it can be utterly exhausting.

Alife can only imagine how exhausting it must be for the attendants, clerks and officers.

There’s a crying, drunk woman, who’s struggling to come to grips with being in jail. “T-that’s a felony, right?”

“Yes mam.” Hendrickson answers, long past the point with her blubbering and general uncooperativeness as of the past, Alfie checks his phone, hour.

“Third row, first chair.”

The woman starts sobbing.  

 

_____________

 

A man with a DUI, has to be holed up in the drunk tank as he keeps crying: "I didn't do anything, I didn't do anything."

  
Alfie is there, with his camera when Sergeant Jody Mills breaks the news to him that his reckless driving has killed a young couple and their ten-year-old son. 

 

_____________

  

Hannah is kind and patient with a trans woman called Jessica, who is scared of being sentenced to an all male prison. They ask Alfie to do a coffee run, and tell him he can leave his camera locked up with the rest of their gear.

By the time Alfie gets back Jessica has already moved through the process and is being transferred to a jail cell, awaiting prosecution and a transfer to the High Desert State Prison.

Hannah is grateful for the coffee. 

_____________

 

Alfie, newly resurrected via the grace of caffeine, is filming yet another talking head with Officer Hanscum when it happens. 

“It’s my favorite place to work, cos, you just never know what’s going to come through that door.” Office Hanscum enthuses. Right at that moment a snarling, tripping man, being held up and directed by two male officers and tailed by Officer Novak, enters the hallway. 

“Step aside!” One of the unnamed Officers demands. Alfie does just that with only the wall keeping him from toppling right over with his camera.

“Oh-yah, rough one boys?” Hanscum asks.

“Rather.” Novak replies stormily. “Might be bumped up to a code five, potentially combative, if he doesn’t settle down,” the last is directed to the struggling detainee. “And follow officer instructions.”

“Don’t push me!”

He has obviously been drinking. Or is high.

Both are common among detainees here.

Unnamed officer two sighs. Practically dragging the detainee through into the other room, to the first row, to an empty seat. “Come along, sir,” he says. "This'll all be a lot easier for you if you just move through the process."

“Don’t pull me down!” The detainee cries. “Why you pulling me down?”

 

_____________

 

“We give them one chance,” Hendrickson says walking away from a different, earlier, spitting and hissing detainee in a restraint chair, a netted bag obscuring his long time, drug-addled features. “Just one; to walk through the booking area like a man, and go through the process.”

Sergeant Hendrickson speaks without being fazed, as though this is the usual, the everyday. He stares right into the camera. “Not everybody takes that chance.”

 

_____________

 

“So, now that we’re calm.” Office Hanscum enthuses to the tipsy, but now calmer detainee. Alfie hovers nearby, lens poised. “You’re going to sit here, quietly, with your papers, and wait for your name to be called, yes? Or for Officer Novak to come retrieve you.”

The detainee grunts and shuffles. He makes a snotty sound.

He has been regulated to the back row of the waiting room, a few seats down from Dean who looks less than pleased about his new jail-buddy.

“That didn’t sound like a no,” Hanscum says sweetly.

The detainee shrugs, grunts out a sound that, _could_ be, in _some_ universe, a yes.

“Hunky-dory!” Hanscum smiles. “Now, Dean here, he’ll take good care of you. If you have any questions,” she turns to Dean. “Arthur is having a little trouble making it through the process.”

“He’s high?” Dean asks blithely.

Arthur snarls.

“He’s _unruly.”_ Hanscum looks between the two of them kindly, she was, Alfie thinks, wisely chosen to put several seats between them, and to keep Arthur, and by virtue Dean, up the back.

“Surely you can understand the weight of a single bad night Dean?”

Though Dean sits, even Alfie can tell he’s internally cringing.

Hanscum smiles. “Someone will be with you in a sec, boys! Play nice!”  

 

_____________

 

“We pair the, troublesome detainees, with the quote-unquote model ones.” she tells the camera later, as Alfie follows her on her rounds, they walk past the segregated holding cells. “Pairing the newbies with the veterans, it helps keeps things calm and organized in there, it can get a little coo-coo.”

 

_____________

 

Coo-coo turns out to be a lot harder to capture on film as it’s happening but Alfie manages well. He hears the raised voices as Hanscum pushes open the door, reacts immediately and then runs on through. The camera acts as his eyes. 

“Don’t fucken touch—”

 “Hey, hey now—”

"RETURN TO YOUR SEATS INMATES. RETURN TO YOUR SEATS." A voice comes over the PA system. Ushered through Alfie rushes to join the action, finding the best shot with a blur of motion.

“Quit looking at me like that you faggot.” Arthur spits, standing up, still chained, but spinning like a cornered animal.

Dean’s standing up from his seat, his own expression particularly murderous, but he does nothing, says nothing.

Nothing seems just the right amount of _something_ to send Arthur right off, he stalks up to Dean snarls, Hanscum jumps in between them, hands extended.

“Get back in your seats.” Her voice is firm. “Get back in your—”

Arthur swipes out, there’s a glint of something in his hand. It flashes under high light. It’s a second. Maybe two. Dean side steps Hanscum, swings out a fist, it connects with Arthur’s face, a sickening crunch. Arthur falls back, there’s a blade on the floor, Dean slips forward, Hanscum breaks out, stumbling then standing over Arthur. Training kicked in.

Already, she’s straightening, already she’s taking Arthur fully to the ground, dragging him by his belly-chain to break him into a restraining hold.

Three other officers, Hendrickson and Novak included are rushing over.

“Ain’t done fucken nothing officer!” Arthur screams, trying to twist. “I AIN’T DONE NOTHING.”

Hanscum is strong but she is struggling. “Hendrickson!”

“Someone get this man into a side cell.” Hendrickson bellows.

It’s chaos, four officers, trying to safely, but forcibly detain Arthur, Alfie’s not even sure if they’ve noticed the weapon, or even noticed Dean still sprawled out on the floor. Arthur is escorted to his cell, Hendrickson grabs for Dean’s belly cuffs, while Novak hangs back, eyes sharp and searching.

“Get back in your seat Winchester.” Hendrickson orders. Dean grunts, struggling with his chains to his feet on his own.

“Sir,” Novak tries, standing over, what Alfie can see now, is a razor blade, the kind you would find in a pencil sharpener. Incredibly sharp.

“Winchester! Your seat, don’t make me put you in a cell.”

“Love to, really, but, uh,” Dean winces, despite being cuffed one of his arms grips the other, Alfie picks up on his pale face. “Kinda think I’ve been got, sir,” as Dean exposes his profusely bleeding wrist. “Oww.”

Hendrickson swears. “Shit, _Jody!_ ”

Novak jerks forward, hand outstretched to steady Dean’s shoulder. “Christ, Dean?”

"You guys need to work on your pat downs." Dean says, while dripping blood through his fingers.

 

_____________

 

“You’re going to need a tetanus.” The nurse, Nancy tells them.

Alfie can see that Hannah wants to ask for more of a debriefing, for the film, but Nancy right from the get go is a no nonsense woman. Giving nothing to the camera, focused entirely on Dean. 

She barely flinched giving Dean stitches, Alfie had to step back and set his camera down, taking a few deep breaths out in the hall.

There are some things Alfie films that do not make it into the twenty minute episodes they work within.

Despite being stabbed, or in the least, injured, Dean is in remarkably good spirits, the man was born for television. Colour is already returning to his cheeks.

He's chatty an goodnatured when he says; “guess that my stay here will cover the cost of that for me huh? Since I was saving one of your own.”

Nancy doesn’t even look up from her work, fulling out Dean’s information and noting his given care. “That’s unlikely, sir.”

Dean’s snort is light but amused. “Damn heroes, under appreciated these days,” then, those green orbs are on Alfie, a little blow out from the pain treatment. Dean’s twisting in his seat, and throwing out his wrist.  “Hey, hey camera kid, get in here, get a shot of this.”

Alfie stops himself from stepping forward, he tosses a glance to Hannah who inclines their head. He hoists the camera up a little higher on his shoulder, angles it just so he can get a few shots of the tender injury; a jagged, uneven, _deep_ slice the length of one of Alfie’s fingers.

“This, is a battle wound.” Dean offers the camera, then lifts something of a fond gaze to Officer Novak. “Hey Cas, think I can get my bond lowered on account of my being stabbed under your care?”

“It’s a cut.” Novak says, but it’s gentle. The fondness in his voice more than noticeable, Alfie will recall, later. In playing back the tape, Hannah will beam.

“A shallow one at that, though you are a bleeder.” Nancy offers.

Dean turns his one-hundred-watt grin on her, and it’s hard, really, not to be taken a little by a man who is at once so unassuming in his washed out plaid and jeans, yet also so striking.

Officer Novak, diligently standing guard, makes a sound in his throat.

Dean turns to him. “Man, I’m paid to be pretty not tough,” though he mumbles the last under his breath. “Don’t even have my damn blade on me.”

Novak seems uncomfortable all of a sudden. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he says.

“Whatever settles your conscience, angel.” Dean replies, looking away from the camera and up at the officer with long eyelashes, that chiseled jaw and green eyes. “Donna okay?”

“Officer Hanscum is alright,” Officer Novak visibly softens at the mention of his colleague, the genuine concern, Alfie thinks, that Dean is displaying, has a tendering effect. “A little shaken.”

“Yeah, meth head’s’ll do that to ya. Couldn’t let her get cut though, coulda been a needle or something. Then what would'ya do with a cracked up cop?” Dean decides quite firmly. “Be a damn shame to ruin a face like that. She’s cute.”

Novak simply squints his eyes.

“C’mon Cas, don’t be jealous.” It’s joking, it’s flirtatious, Alfie has spent enough time here now that he knows the name of the game, knows how people like Dean tend to work (valiant attempts to protect the officers arresting them, notwithstanding).

And yet Dean’s voice is soft, sincere. It will hit Alfie in subsequent rewatches that there is clearly something in Dean’s tone that proves there is _something_ here. A respect. A genuine emotion. A connection. 

“You know you’re still my favourite.” Dean says.

The flush lighting up Officer Novak’s face and neck, almost reveals too much.

Alfie doesn’t see it, not right away, he’s exhausted, overworked and not nearly as eagle-eyed as his producer Hannah. But it’s all caught on camera.

He sees it all in the editing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krissy Chambers is not having a good night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In this verse Krissy is a sex worker and is 19 years old, so if that bothers you probs don't read this**
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> As always Unedited, unbeated, unread

Krissy is equal parts surprised and pissed when Dean’s cop boy toy pulls her up on the Strip.

She knows its Blue Eyes without even having to stop and turn around, although she does when he calls out to her “Mam, a second please.” Not a request, an _order_ in that gravelly baritone that Krissy would call the consequence of swallowing rocks, while Dean has said is “ _husky_ ”. Gross, jeez. Whatever.

Either way, Blue Eyes calls out to her and Krissy swears in her head. Swings her purse up onto her shoulder, juts out one hip as she turns around and what she hopes—with these new clothes, massive boots and this entirely-not-her wig—throws him off.

“Me?”

It catches Krissy off guard to see that Blue Eyes isn’t alone.

“If you could come stand by the car please,” Blue Eyes says, also pretty concerned with his company because he barely looks at her just ushers her along, eyes on his papers. “If you could put your purse on the hood.”

Krissy does so, familiar with the process.

Their company is a camera that’s worth probably more than Krissy’s whole person, and her wardrobe, she has to think, god it’s a nice one too, heavy, pretty much swallowing the guy who struggles out of the back of the cop car, already got his lens trained on them. Being caught under the camera doesn’t have the exact affect on Krissy as she first thought it might have, it makes her nervous.

She turns her cheek away right as Novak’s asking for her name.

“Chrysanthemum,” Krissy tells him, because half of her just wants to see his expression.

Novak looks up from where his eyes have been trained on his notepad. He looks into her eyes. Blinks.

Yep, Krissy thinks, accurate name is accurate.

“Krissy.” He says, with all the disappointment Krissy thinks her dad might have for her.

If her dad was around and if he actually cared that is.

A little soured by the thought Krissy plasters on her john-hitting grin. “Thought I got you Blue Eyes,” she pouts. Krissy knows how her body’s futilely working to draw the ire and fire out of Novak and lessen her penalty, as he just caught her the other week on her way out to the Strip and isn’t looking too pleased with her right now if the bags beneath his steely gaze are anything to go by.

“Take that off and empty your purse out on the hood.”

Right, so not in the mood for being cute, Krissy notes this, and tips her purse out, with a little more bending over the hood and a little more flare than is strictly necessary.

Camera guy’s moved in, and as Krissy tosses a wink to him, she notices the other person hovering close by. Person, because she isn’t sure—

While Novak starts rifling through her Trojans Krissy backs off from the cop cruiser a little, extends out one hand.

“Krissy.” She says, and pulls off her wig, setting it down on the car hood, crushed, sweaty brunette locks fall across her shoulders, her pony tail’s barely holding on. The extended hand she leaves out to shake. “She, her.”

The third person, nicely dressed, too nicely for the Strip, laughs a little and actually does (as much to Krissy’s surprise as everyone else’s) take her hand.

“Hannah, they, them.”

Krissy smiles. “What about you handsome?” she calls to the camera man. “You getting my good side?” she strikes a pose, butt pressing up against the cop cruiser, Krissy lifts her padded breasts with both hands, and bends over a little to the camera, showing them off.

“Kristen, turn around, face the front.”

Krissy does, Novak looks about two steps from wrenching her around and cuffing her on his vehicle and not in the way she’s used to being manhandled. It is hard though, as Blue Eyes goes through her purse, picking through empty and unused condom wrappers, her wallet, some mints, lube, her toy. He makes a face.

Krissy can’t be blamed for laughing.

“Krissy,” Hannah cuts in, close now, their eyes are on Krissy’s face, though they motion the camera guy in to film the contents of her bag. “We’ve heard your name a little bit around the county jail.”

Huh.

“You been gossiping about me Blue Eyes?” Krissy just can’t stop poking. Novak shots her a positively poisonous glare.

“From another… worker actually.” Hannah clarifies. “A Dean? We’ve been filming at the center for about a week now, and he’s mentioned you. So, you two know each other? Is it common for, those booked on solicitation—”

“Formal.” Krissy cuts in.

Hannah flushes a little. “Is it common for you all to know each other?”

“Well, me and Dean, we—”

“Mx Johnson if you could please refrain from interviewing the detainee right at this moment that would be appreciated, thank you.” Novak then fixes his gaze on Krissy. “Eyes forward. ID?”

“Lost it.” Krissy shrugs. Bodily reactions offset the lies. Even though they both know she is playing, that Novak knows even before he’s asked the question that she doesn’t have her ID or sosh on her.

She’d be right to call the sound Novak makes then, a disgruntled rumble.

Hannah’s leaning in. “Dean has been called a _wifey_ in the station, does that title have any bearing on your relationship to one an—”

“Mx Johnson,” Novak snaps with a stern, icy look. Hannah instantly drops back, but they motion the camera forward, as though one response is intuitively linked with the other. Gotta protect the self, but gotta get that story.

“It was agreed you and your team could accompany select officers out in the field so long as you didn’t impede upon police investigations.”

“This is an investigation?” Krissy can’t help but ask. “Getting bored of the catch and release, Blue Eyes?” 

Novak says nothing just rifles through her things. Krissy turns back to Hannah and their camera.

“Dean and I cross paths on the Strip, we know each other as much as any two people working the same circles on the same turf know each other,” she’s aware, acutely so, of Novak’s eye on her. One wrong word…for some reason—she knows the reason—Novak doesn’t want her talking about Dean with these people.

And yet he lets them in his car to film everyone else he pulls up, she thinks and shrugs. “That’s all.”

“What’s this?” Novak asks.

He’s motioning to her toy; a small purple vibrator.

Krissy smiles. “Hate to say it Blue Eyes but, if you don’t know what that is—”

“I know that this is a vibrator.” Novak huffs, and there’s something in there that’s a little less officer, a little more of an actual _human being_. I’s just for a second, just a glimmer, but it catches Krissy and she finds herself wondering, if it’s those moments with Novak when he is _not_ Novak that Dean’s so attracted to.

She might kinda sorta get it. If that’s the case.

Novak’s jaw locks into a hard line. “Why is there a vibrator in your purse?”

Apparently on TV it’s better to talk about trade toys than it is about trade partners, normally Novak, or most other cops who are already familiar with Krissy wouldn’t feel the need to ask, they’d already _know._ So, he’s asking this for show… sell out.

By playing it up for the camera, Novak’s diverting attention.

Krissy files that away.

“Sir,” she starts, leans heavily on the hood. “Sometimes, a girl just has to go to the bathroom and relieve herself.”

Whatever man-child is holding the camera behind Hannah, chokes.

“Alfie.” Hannah whisper-scolds, but not nearly quiet enough.

Krissy smirks.

Novak raises an eyebrow. Addresses her. “At least you’re being safe.” He eyes the two strings of condoms.

“Free clinic,” Krissy explains.

Novak’s expression darkens. “So, not only are you illegally being paid for sex, but you’re getting your equipment for free?”

Krissy straightens. “It’s a free clinic, free for everyone.” She thinks about mentioning that Dean taught her that little trick, but keeps that card close.

“Not everyone is breaking the law.” Novak says mildly. “Nor taking twenty at a time.”

“So, that means I _shouldn’t_ be practicing safe sex, Officer?” Krissy snorts. “Because I can take them back, Officer Novak—”

When Officer Novak straightens up he’s actually pretty tall, pretty tall even to a girl like Krissy in eight-inch platform heels.

“It means,” Novak says, “you shouldn’t be having the kind of sex you’re having, with the people you’re having it with, abusing free clinics—”

His triad is cut off by Bodak Yellow.

Krissy’s ringtone.

She makes to take a step forward but Novak grabs it first. Slides her phone across the hood with, what might be actually impressive speed. He holds it up to his ear as he swipes to pick up the call.

Krissy _hates_ how he holds up one hand to her, a single finger poised. “Hello? Officer Novak of the Nevada Police Department, speaking…”

She sees the screen pressed to his ear go black, Novak’s brows pinch together, he lowers the phone, whoever called has hung up.

Krissy knows exactly who’s hung up.

Novak asks, rather calmly, “Who was just ringing you?”

“I dunno, you picked it up.”

Novak hums, it’s infuriating. Krissy bends down, undoes the strap on one heel because her feet are aching, as she says. “My stepdad.”

“It was,” Novak glances at Hannah. “I believe, a more _feminine_ voice on the line.”

“My step _mum_ then.” Krissy snipes on reflex.

Novak’s goddamn blue eyes are as hard and flat as gemstones.

“Do you have a PI Kristen?”

 _Fuck you._ Krissy thinks, but she pop’s the ‘P’ when she says, “Nope.”

“Krissy.” Novak presses, like he _knows_ her, just because he’s fucken goo-goo for Dean, and doesn’t have the balls to pay him for a night like any other sane, puppy-love struck John, doesn’t mean he knows _her_ and gets to pull the all holier-than-thou disappointed dad routine.

Novak just has that look about him, the look Dean conjures up in men all over Nevada, lust, worship, friggen blind devotion. He speaks in a low, rolling tone. “Dean has been very insistent—”

“Y’know, Mr Novak, Mr Officer sir,” Krissy makes sure her tone _drips_. “You’re acting like Dean is some precious innocent angel, not breaking the law, not doing _exactly_ what I’m doing, worse even, the men he’s been with? You wanna talk PI’s? Or abusing free clinical privilege, a fundamental human— _Hey!”_

Novak’s up in Krissy’s space, _tugging._ “Front to the hood, hands behind your back.”

“What? _Hey!”_

Novak’s grabbing her arms, pulling them up and behind her back, there’s a knee there too, in her back pressing her forward into the car.

“Okay, okay, oww ease up.”

It’s instinct to say oww, more than actually feeling it.

“I’ll be taking you into custody on a formal charge of solicitation.” Novak says, breath hot on her neck as he… he that sonuvabitch is _arresting_ her. He’s actually handling her pretty gently from there on in, but his tone is anything but, “It is clear that collectively we have been too lenient on you, it is past curfew, you’re an adult now and when you make conscious choices—”

Still, Krissy struggles. “Arrested at eighteen as an adult sure, right, but I can’t fucken have a drink till I’m twenty one that’s— “

“You are making your own choices. I do not make the law I just enforce it.”

“Bullshit, absolute bullshit Castiel, just cos you’ve got a hard on for a hooker and you can’t even take it.”

Novak jerks her around and marches her to the crusier’s back door. Krissy turns her face away as they pass Hannah, the camera, both are just _staring_ at her, she can’t really read their expression but her gut is twisting uncomfortably at having a larger audience than the drunken regulars of the Strip. These people are sober, these people will remember, these people _have it on tape._

“I apologize Mx Johnson, Alfie.” Novak’s saying. “You might need to find another ride to the station.”

The door opens, Novak’s hand is on the back of Krissy’s head, pushing her down, his other hand in the middle of her chuffed wrists is steering her in. Krissy struggles needing the autonomy, needing to have control, but it’s hard to try and do that with Novak friggen _pushing._

“Quit it!” she gasps, kicking back at air. “I can get in myself.”

Novak hovers, but at least he lets her. Though he does slam the back door in her face, almost cutting off her nose as she tries to talk to him.

“Hey? HEY!” Krissy yells, but with glass and chrome between them and now Novak’s back…great…mature… it’s hard to get his attention. Krissy shuffles, it’s hard with her hands tied like they are to move around. She follows Novak back around to the front where he’s scooping all her shit back up into her purse, mouth moving as he’s spouting some crap for the cameras.

“This is BULLSHIT CASTIEL!” Krissy yells and kicks the back of his seat. She groans but cuts that out when the door opens and Novak throws her purse into the front passengers side. He slips into the front. Krissy refrains for kicking right into his back even though she really wants to.

Instead she spits, “You don’t think I can pick these? Dean friggen _taught_ me Castiel!”

Novak rolls his shoulders back as he pulls out from the curb. Krissy huffs, groans and tries to get comfortable with her arms around her back. Going to jail for a worker is like paying tax, exactly as annoying and tedious as paying tax.

A pair of blue eyes fix on her struggling form in the rear view. Then, they disappear behind dark sunglasses, it’s fucking dark out, it’s three AM in the morning, how on earth has Dean managed to lure in the worst, most aggravatingly law-abiding, dorkiest cop on the Strip, Krissy’s downright poised to _kill him_ for it.

“You have fifteen minutes till we reach the station.” Novak says looking straight out ahead. “I’d like to see you try.”

 

___________

Though the seats are crap, Krissy prefers to sit out in the booking room with all the other _detainees_ while going through the process, rather than a cell or out in the drunk tank.

So, it’s only natural then, that when Officer Novak brings her in and dumps her he does so in one of the back cells. He doesn’t put her in a restraint chair, something which he mentions as he—smugly, Krissy _hates_ it— undoes her cuffs. But it’s clear he wants to.

At least he’s put her in her _own_ cell.

Which is less great four hours later and Krissy is fucking _bored._ Tired, she’s been lying on the floor with her feet up against the wall, her heels had to be taken, a _hazard_ , which, yeah they better be for the sixty bucks she paid for them. She moved from that position an hour ago, cleaned her teeth out in her own reflection in the door.

Hannah and camera boy came out to her for a little. They filmed her through the door window and the cat flap while Krissy crouched, talking and answering the questions she felt like answering.

Which really wasn’t many.

Hannah had asked her if she’d learnt anything tonight, perhaps, Hannah had said with a smile on their face, not talking back to Officers.

Krissy’s answer probably hadn’t given Hannah nor their crew the come-to-jesus, fuzzy reality-tv ending they might have been hoping for.

It had made Novak, standing nearby, pretty pissed at any rate which, really, was a bonus.

Right now though, Krissy is stretching out her back while lying down on the wooden bench, stretching her legs up and out, knees pulling down to her chest.

She jolts right up, body oblivious to the morning hour, when the lock on her cell clangs and the massive blue metal door is pulled sideways.

“Alright, Miss Chambers?” Officer Hanscum says, standing just outside the doorway, “arms out girlie,” Krissy jogs over, hating the jailhouse floor with her bare feet but putting up with it any way. When she reaches Officer Hanscum she is given a part of flip flops.

“We’re going to get you through this process and we’re gonna get you through it smoothly.”

Krissy nods.

“You are a very lucky girl Miss Chambers.” Officer Hanscum says while she clicks her tongue and clicks Krissy’s handcuffs into place. “There’s a lovely man out here for you coming to pay your bail.” She winks.

Has to be Dean then. Krissy thinks, the only man she knows that’d give her the time of day, let alone give up several hundred dollars to bust her ass out. Plus, Donna likes Dean, most of the jailhouse likes Dean.

There’s a sick feeling in Krissy’s gut that has nothing to do with her not having eaten in more than ten hours.

“So, the charges you wrought; solicitation, breakage of curfew, and obstruction of an officer…”

“Donna that’s—”

Donna holds up a finger as she walks Krissy down the hall. Terminally delightful as she repeats herself. “Now, the charges you have they’ve already gone through the paperwork for with you, when you came in, correct?”

Yes but, “Officer Hanscum—”

Donna directs them down another hallway and a corner, someone, in a cell nearby is crying.

“Correct?” she asks again.

Krissy, bites her lip, nods her head. She takes her stuff when Donna passes it over to her. Instead of holding her wig, Krissy just plops it on her head like a hat.

“That colour looks good on you Krissy!” Donna laughs.

Krissy pretty sure that whatever her face just did is not a smile but Donna doesn’t seem to mind.

“Okie dokie,” she goes on. “So, your bail is two thousand dollars—”

“Shit.” That’s all that Krissy has pulled tonight and for the last couple of days too.

“Well, yes, that’s definitely one reaction.” says Donna around a sympathetic smile. She leads Krissy out into the booking room towards the nurse’s stations. “Like I said, you are a very lucky girl—”

“ _Krissy_!” It’s Dean in his “non-work” clothes, which is pretty much baggy jeans with holes in the crotch and ass and baggy shirts. Different than the times she's seen him right after a "client" or just before... because Dean's fancy like that, calling john "clients". He jogs up, face a barcode Krissy doesn’t know how to read. He slows. “Fucken hell, what is that on your head?”

Krissy pulls her wig off now with a glare, thinks about chucking it in the bin, or at Novak’s head. “Shut up.”

“You,” Dean tries, tapers off, then, much to Krissy’s own disgruntlement (which she makes very clear with a groan) he pulls her into his chest in a hug. “C’mere.”

Krissy would never admit it. But Dean holding her is actually pretty okay, he’s warm and clean and solid and smells nice. Still, Krissy resolutely refuses to lift her arms to hug him back, she has her image. Also she’s chuffed.

“They took my tips,” she whispers to him as Dean holds her, one hand around her waist one at the back of her head. Donna comes up behind them, Krissy feels her cuffs loosen and then finally, fall completely away. _Thank fuck_.

Dean growls in her ear, but it’s a kittenish thing. “You were sloppy. You’re lucky that’s all they took.” He lets her go, stands back with his hands on her arms to look her over. His mouth twists at the length, or lack-there-of of her shirt.

Krissy goes to scold him because who the hell is Dean Winchester to talk about skirt length but Dean’s attention isn’t on her any more, Novak is here, just come from out back, with paperwork in his hands.

Krissy realises he’s coming out with _her_ paper work as he keeps walking towards them, bee lining for Donna.

“All set?” Donna asks him with a friendly expression.

Novak merely nods his head, hands the sheets over.

Dean’s backed off from Krissy now, like an older brother from his younger sister in front of a crush or something in high school (it’s pathetic really).

He’s pulling on the ends of his shirt, rubs his hands down his thighs, as though smoothing out invisible creases. “Hey, Cas!” He smiles, one arm reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. “You’re up late!”

Cas doesn’t even look at him. “Officer Hanscum,” he bids to Donna again, turns on his heel, and just walks away.

Dean blinks. His arm drops.

Donna’s also standing there, mouth slightly parted, thrown off, as much as any of them, but Novak’s iciness and complete assholery—

Krissy glares at his back until it disappears around a corner.

It’s Donna who breaks the silence. “Uh, umm, right.” She nods, turns to Dean and extends Krissy’s papers. “Dean if you could just—”

“Y-you, uh, got a pen?” Dean takes the papers, while Donna fishes around in her pockets for a pen. She extends it to him.

“Yeah, yeah alright.” He murmurs, head bent low, Krissy can’t see his face. He uses his own thigh as a surface to sign on, though Donna takes a few steps back towards the counter, Dean sticks to his own leg. When he’s done he straightens, frowning.

“Something up with Cas?” he asks her.

Donna shakes her head, looking after the door where Novak escaped to. “No, I don’t—he was fine when he went out on patrol earlier? Came back with Krissy steaming, though that was hours ago.”

 Two sets of adult eyes turn to rest on Krissy.

Krissy stares the both of them down. “Seems normal to me. Stick still firmly wedged up his a—”

“Krissy!” Dean barks. Donna’s mouth twists.

Krissy stands there not wanting to say sorry, Dean’s looking at her like he expects her to and Donna looks like she expects more of Krissy and just, what the hell?

She tugs her arms in close, folds them over her chest. “Can we go now?”

Dean’s gaze is a weight on her.

Donna, shuffling a few steps, relents with a sigh. “It’s been a long night,” and yeah Krissy _knows_ that, _she’s_ the one who’s been in lock up.

Dean shakes Donna’s hand as he hands her pen back. “Thanks, Donna, we’ll be good. Won’t see either of us for a while,” it’s his usual song and dance but tonight his smile’s paper thin.

Donna smiles sadly back, she knows it’s an empty promise on both their parts. “You take care of yourselves now,” she fixes a lingering look to Krissy. “Be safe.”

Scorned Krissy huffs and turns away, Dean assures Donna they will then leads them both out the front. He’s walking across the parking lot, silent climbing into Baby, ballzy for bringing her out this far on the Strip in the first place as anything could happen with assholes and drunks and people off their faces to a car so pretty.

Still, Krissy’s glad for the familiar comfort, sinking into the passenger seat beside Dean as he slips into his own.

She curls her fingers beneath her thighs against Baby’s cool leather. Damn it’s cold. Dean, perceptive, leans over to turn on the heater.

The drive is so silent, the radio’s not even on. Dean’s concentrating, Krissy gets that, this isn’t the best place to drive but luckily he doesn’t have far to go with dropping her off at home—

Dean passes the turn they’re supposed to take.

Krissy turns around in her seat. “Hey, the turn off—”

“You’re staying at mine tonight.” Dean says, gaze on the windscreen, hands on ten and two.

A part of Krissy has to admit she’s a little relieved. “Dweb, you can’t afford me.”

Dean levels her with a downright scary stare, Krissy turns to look out the window. Sniffs. “A will be pissed,” she tells him.

Dean flexes his fingers on the wheel.

“Ywah, well, A’ll be pissed anyway. Text,” he reaches back dangerously behind and grabs for Krissy’s bag in the back seat. He chucks it to her. “Don’t call.”

It is… good advice, especially since A called before and friggen Novak picked up. God. Krissy thumbs something out and sends it on through, not specifically mentioning Dean but letting A know she’s been picked up (and bailed out) by a friend.

A’s writing something, little dots appear, Krissy shuts her phone down before anything gets through. She sighs.

“Mmm?” Dean asks.

“I’m screwed.” Krissy says. “I had almost eight hundred.”

Dean glances at her while the light they’re at is red. “Tonight?”

Krissy nods.

“A doesn’t—”

Krissy cuts in. “Bookings, so A knows,” yeah, no hiding just the sheer amount she lost tonight, probably what A’s text is going to be about. “She is going to be pissed.”

“When we get to my place, you take a shower,” Dean says, a little more gently than his creased expression. “We’ll get you something to eat and i’ll deal with it.”

Explains where they’re going. Krissy’s not sure how she feels about it but her body instinctively is relaxing back into the seat, muscles calming a bit. “Dean—”

“What the hell kinda shit did you pull with Cas tonight huh?” Dean asks, voice strained.

Krissy swallows. Looks away. “Nothing.”

“Nothing, huh?” Dean has to jerk his eyes back to the road. He flexes his fingers again. “He _arrested_ you.”

“So? He arrests _you_ all the time.”

“That’s—” Dean snarls, takes a breath. He lifts one hand up and scrubs at his face. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“For one. I can actually afford my own bail.”

Krissy rolls her eyes. “You’re such a hypocrite Dean.”

“How you figure that now?”

“You spout off big about getting out of the street game, getting away from A and being an activist or some shit, being good to the pigs—”

Dean takes his eyes off the road. “Hey now, Cas ain’t—”

“But you’ve done and are still doing all the shit I am? Just fancier rooms, fancier people. So, why’s it okay for you but not for me?”

Dean hardens right up. “Because I’m the grown up.”

“Fuck you.” Krissy spits.

The next corner Dean takes is pretty damn sharp. Then the next then the next. Finally, eventually, he eases up.

“Yeah okay, you’re right. Alright?” He says, carefully not looking at her. “But, I don’t think the street game’s for you Krissy. You’re playing it rough,” Krissy cuts him a painful side eye. Dean ignores her. “Besides, I don’t work for A no more.”

“Well, yeah. Good for you.”

“Krissy—”

“Can we just… _not_ ,” Krissy says, hating how her voice shakes a little with it. “Not when I’m covered in gross and grim, I’ve been in a shitty jail since like two AM, some guy drooled on my cheek earlier as he came and I swear it was the grossest thing.”

She rubs the spot for good measure. Every part of her saying: yes, please, shower, _now_.

“I don’t doubt it.” Dean laughs, wincing in solidarity.

Krissy sighs. “I just want to shower and sleep,” she admits.

“Okay.” Dean nods, relenting softly. “Yeah, okay yeah. Let’s get you sorted out.”

“Can we—” Krissy starts but stops herself.

Dean turns to her. “Yeah?”

“Can we, get something to eat?” Krissy tries, hating that her voice sounds small, that she _feels_ small. She remembers the look Novak gave her, as if she was someone, some _thing_ less then him, than _Dean_. Ugh, asshole.

“Trays were shit tonight,” she explains. They were.

Dean bits his bottom lip. “The pudding’s usually pretty nice.”

“They didn’t have pudding tonight.”

“Damn shame.” Dean tuts, “drive thru cool?”

“Sure.”

Dean nods then takes them off the path back to his place to somewhere still open. He reaches over between them and flicks on the radio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comments and Kudos are greatly appreciated!** I have a few installments mapped out in my head but nothing incredibly firm so let me know what you would LOVE to see


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel both come to find that time changes people

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas POV cos I deliver
> 
> Just not in ways you'll readily anticipate ;)
> 
>  
> 
> As always **unbetaed, unedited, unread**

**2015**

 

It’s not odd to see a lot more skin than normal out on the Strip, especially at this time of night (or morning rather). Even only having been stationed in Nevada a bit under two months, Castiel knows that the Vega Strip is a little looser, a little more… _uninhibited_ than the rest of the US, but still…

That really does not explain quite what he’s seeing now.

Black thigh high boots on thick muscled legs. A casual red coat tied off at a nearly exposed waist. Hip cut outs but there are no hips. A blue and white cut off crop top so-artfully really-tight across a flat, toned chest, corded arms, a pert backside.

They wear a beret, Castiel notices perched on a head of hair that is obviously not their own.

Though the clothing and the blonde bobbed wig is decidedly feminine, Castiel feels, perhaps maybe, this person isn’t quite as they appear.

Which, unfortunately, given the state and expectation of the county USA police department, is instigation enough for Castiel to pull them up.

“Excuse me si—ma’am,” Castiel has pulled his cruiser up alongside the sidewalk. Finely tuned from years a cruising and confrontation, his radar is already pinning but he knows all sorts make their way to the Strip. He wants to be respectful, not quite knowing how, to how this individual identifies or whether what he is seeing is a gimmick, or perhaps a diversion.

“Step up to the vehicle, please.” Castiel orders.

Green eyes, he notices, plush cupid-bow lips, turn to him. A sharp jaw, a boyish, impish grin.

“There a problem officer?” the person asks smoothly, deeply.

It takes Castiel a moment, he smooths out his shirt, fixes his belt. “Uhh, yes, umm. Where are you, uh, umm— _ah!_ ”

He trips stepping up over the curb, clutching wildly at the car the perp—the person extends their arms out to him. “You okay man?”

It is all, less than ideal really.

“I’m fine yes thank you.” Castiel tries, and clears his throat. His stomach now is so tense he flirts with the idea of just letting the person go, regardless of his gut feeling.

“Rookie?” the person asks, their smile polite, edging on coquettish.

As per his training Castiel scans their body language, their face, skin, eyes for signs of inebriation. None so far, the persons eyes are remarkably clear, there is no profuse sweating no pupil dilation no slurring or uncontrolled motor actions. But the skin exposed on the persons sides, their arms, shoulders cheeks, is lightly freckled. Castiel swallows.

“Can I ask where you are going this evening.” he asks without actually asking.

It is then that the person sighs, one hand, nails painted the faintest most delicate pink, comes up to dig beneath their wig, in the end they just take the whole thing off. “Look, can I level with you?” the ask and lean in close. Which, in that skirt and those boots does absolutely nothing to settle Castiel’s nerves.

They "level" with Castiel, voice a low rumble. “Kinda out on a bet right now.”

Castiel hums. He’s heard quite a lot of things in his weeks with the Clark County Detention Centre but this is…new. “A bet?”  
  
“Yeah, a friend, bet me I couldn’t hook up with anyone tonight looking like Pretty Woman.” The laugh they let out then is delightful, a deep rumbling ripple that shivers over Castiel’s skin and has him standing taller.

But still the words are confusing.

“A pretty woman?”

The person blinks. “The movie? About a prostitute?” there is no recognition for Castiel in that and it must show on his face as the person looks at them a long moment, before asking; “You ain’t ever seen Pretty woman?”

“I’ve certainly seen pretty women and men.” Castiel tells them, unsure exactly about where this is going. They decide it is best to derail it and continue on with his duty. He clears his throat. “May I see some form of identification?”

At least the person is compliant, they reach into their bag, a purse really, and pull out a distinctly masculine wallet. Castiel is just ending that thought, thinking he might be able to wrap this up and head back to the station early when the person tisks, empties their wallet and hisses out an excuse.

“I, uh, I’ve lost my ID.” They say, Castiel looks up at them. “Know my sosh though.”

They smile. Beautifully.

Castiel’s nerves prick, his gut instincts feeling validated. That’s… that’s a common excuse among prostitutes.

 

**2018**

Dean sees Cas before Cas sees Dean.

To be fair, Dean is on the lookout for Cas and Cas is just on the lookout for anyone. Anyone on the Strip who’s misbehaving, acting out or just trying to make their way on the Strip in a, well, less than conventional fashion.

Dean does feel a little bit lucky though, leaning against Cas’ parked cruiser (he knows it’s his, he’s memorized the ID like his own phone number), as Cas rounds the corner in his tan uniform absent any detainees. It means they can be alone. Which really, is the whole damn reason Dean's out here, wait...not that he y'know... he's not desperate, but...

Stepping on the last of his cigarette, Dean stays where he is, perched on the front hood of the police cruiser, he’s drawing attention he knows, cos yeah, this is pretty ballzy, but luckily no one’s seen fit to try and mimic him.

Cas parked in a pretty secluded spot as far as the Strip goes.

The moment Cas sees him is kinda comical. He actually takes a step back. Dean fixes a flirty grin on his face, well it sort of comes unbidden at this point, the sight of Cas alone is enough to stir something up in Dean. Something…unprofessional. Dean knows fully well what he is and isn’t saying. What he is and isn't doing out here like this, as though he still actually _did_ shit like this.

Cas comes over to him, a storm rolling. Dean slides off the hood but still leans against it.

Try and avoid me now fucker. He thinks with a smile. “Heya Cas.”

“For fuckssake, Dean.”

It’s practically a growl. Dean feels his smile widen. “Almost didn’t recognize you without the Wonder Twins.”

“I—” Cas begins, voice raised, but he looks around to see they’ve drawn some curious eyes he glares at Dean, lowers his voice. “Mx Johnson and Alfie are filming at the station tonight.”

“Admit it, you like your little entourage,” says Dean. “They’re gonna be sticking around awhile then huh?”

Cas doesn’t answer him. “Dean, go home,” He steps to Dean. “I am not in the mood.”

Dean huffs. Doesn’t back down. He meets Cas eye and…sees how tired the other man is. The line beneath his eyes having smoothed out to bags, the flat moue of his mouth is more chapped than normal, when Cas looks at him, he doesn’t meet his eyes, staring off to the side of Dean, over his shoulder.

“Cas—”

“Go home.” Cas side steps Dean entirely, opens up the door to his cruiser. Dean acts, _reacts_ on instinct.

“But Officer! What if I’m out here—” He leans in close. Too close to be misconstrued as anything but murmuring in Castiel’s ear. Breath hot on the side of his face, the curve of his jaw, making it clear all at once, that this is an invitation. “ _Selling my body_?”

Cas’ eyes flash, this ground is familiar between after all this time. This whole charade is almost, in a semi-sick way, playful. He straightens, Dean steps back. Cas tugs on the hem of his shirt, Dean presses back a little against the cruiser, arches one brow.

Cas closes the door as he rounds on Dean.

Dean’s not quite sure what it says about him or specifically _them_ that without even behind asked, Dean digs in his pockets for his wallet, ID and sosh and sets it all out on the hood.

Cas goes through his wallet roughly, not even bothering to check out Dean’s identification. “Are you hooking tonight?”

It’s not a serious question. Dean grins, Cas knows what he does and doesn't do now-a-days, this shouldn't even be a question. “C’mon Cas, you know me better than that.”

“Yes, I know you enough not to give me a straight answer.”

Dean hums a low note as Cas turns to him. “Mmm, true.”

Cas’ eyes run up him and Dean actually _feels_ it. A gentle hand, calloused probably, a part of Dean wonders if he would feel it, sliding down his arm, down his side, skirting across his stomach, fingers low. Course Cas wouldn’t do that, not now not here no matter that every time Dean looks at him he gets the impression the other man might want to. Certainly himself, he wants Cas to. But just, with this—with them.

It’s hard.

Shut up not like that.

It’s…complicated. Which is entirely why Dean's out here in the first place.

Familiar and complicated.

“Please,” Cas says lowly. “Stand up straight.”

Dean shifts his weight a little, from leaning against the cruiser to leaning on one hip. He watches Cas, pointedly now, not looking at him, but again just looking down at his wallet, nothing much in there, his cards, money, a photo of Mom, Sam and Jess, some condoms.

It’s not an incriminating amount, Dean actually forgot those one were in there, probably out of date, shit. Dean learnt his lesson as a rookie about keeping his kit in his wallet. It's been so long since he's been working on the street he's kinda forgotten the rules. But still, they’re nothing more than what a normal red-blooded American with a dick would carry about.

The string sitting in Dean’s pocket is less easy to explain away.

So is the shit-ton of money. Not because he was working, just because he had work and had a shit tonne of money.

Double shit.

Cas looks at the few condoms a little harder, a little longer than he should, Dean thanks about cracking a joke, _never seen a cock sock Cas?_ But what comes out instead is a little more sincere.

“So, you feeling better?”

Cas’ expression is blank. “Pardon?”

Dean knows fully well what he is and isn’t saying.

“The other day,” he finds himself going on. “I popped by for Krissy, you seemed…sort of stressed?”

Cas loses a little of the colour to his face, the Strip lights, a neon kaleidoscope, washing him out.

 

**2015**

The person’s wallet is absent any identification, any named material at all. There is a photo, of a young man, a young woman with her arms around him and then another woman older, similarly blonde smiling at the two of them.

There’s also quite a few condoms. _Quite_ a few.

Strike two.

“Where are you staying?” Castiel asks.

The person, seems to have been picking something out of their teeth. They glance at Castiel upon being noticed. “Uhh, sorry?”

“On the Strip. I’m assuming you’re not local.”

They seem almost…offended. “I’m local.” They bark, then soften their tone in a way Castiel catches is an exercise of self-awareness. “Mean, I moved here about three months back.”

Strike three. Castiel clears his throat. “Ma’am—”

They laugh. “Hey, no. No ma’am here, just me.” Their smile is coy, kicking up one side of their mouth. “The Kansas crossdresser.” He winks.

It takes Castiel a moment to formulate a response. “Have you had anything to drink tonight, sir?” as all these strikes could almost ( _almost_ ) be explained away by inebriation.

Still, the man’s response is remarkably sober. “No, Officer.”

As tall as he is, Castiel has to crane his neck to look up at him, “Sir, can you please remove your heels.”

“Intimidated?” the man smirks, yet bends to do Castiel’s bidding.

Castiel says: “Hardly.”

The man quirks a grin. He bends.

He bends…

He…h-he…

Castiel turns his head so far away he pinches something in his neck. The _thing_ he’s wearing, the dress, the short skirt, Castiel isn’t sure. Whatever it is, it _rides._ It stretches almost to some unseen limit across masculine, bowed thighs. _God_. And when the man lowers even still, to unclasp his heels.

What he _is_ wearing beneath can barely be considered underwear.

He straightens. “Gotta admit,” he places his heels up on the hood. “That feels a lot better. Damn.”

Castiel catches his breath. “I can imagine.” He says, it comes out dry. Think, think, he is not some rookie out on the field, he has his suspicions, what is he to do now, what should he ask—wait. “Your name?”

 _How could Castiel forget to ask the man’s damn name._  

“Dean.”

Dean. Castiel breathes. “Your last name, Dean?”

Dean blinks. Castiel wonders if he has done something to his eyelashes to make them so long, fake perhaps. Extensions…is that a possibility?

“My last name?”

“Yes.”

The smile he wears is coy, a pretty thing. He leans back heavily against the cruiser, material stretched _tight_ over his core, thighs, and shoulders. Castiel swallows.

“It’s against the law to lie to a cop, right?” Dean asks.

“I would advise against it.” Castiel replies demurely. Feeling heated. He looks at Dean again, realises what he’s doing. “Stand straight—”

“Winchester.” Dean purrs.

Castiel feels…something ignite right into the souls of his feet. “Stand straight Winchester.”

Dean Winchester does. Smoothing hands over his thighs.

Hands over his thighs.

Thighs...

Thi--

“One moment please. _”_ Castiel is sure he said as much in a commanding manner, as it is, he retreats like a dog back around to his side of the cruiser, gets half into the front seat as he boots up the system and runs a call. Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester. Any previous infractions, warrants, felonies, any criminal history at all and Castiel’s about to know about it by running this man’s name (unless he’s been given a fake).

After the moment, the monitor pings.

 

**2018**

Cas looks like the cat who’s just gotten their tail pulled and Dean’s a little bit salty still to feel too badly about it.

“I was unwell.” He gets out after a moment. “I—I apologize if I was short with you.”

Short, right, not the same as outright ignoring but it _is_ an apology. In the way Cas does from things he can’t face, he ducks around into the front of his cruiser, putting glass and chrome between them while he runs Dean’s name through the system.

Unlike normal, Dean heads around to Cas’ side. He pokes his head in. “Hey man, no, you don’t gotta apologize, your job’s stressful.” Cas blinks, leans back a little in his seat, bunch of computers and gogglby-gooks, whatever, Dean doesn’t pay them too much mind, not with the way Cas’ eyes stand out in the low light. “Just glad it was you who picked Krissy up.”

Cas’ brows dive into a frown. “She did not share the sentiment.”

The monitor makes a ringing sound, kinda like a microwave meal finishing up.

“No warrants?” Dean guesses. Because he's all kinds of fancy now, hasn't had an active warrant in years.

He’s glad he came around, if only to get to see Cas’ first real smile of the night. “No warrants.”

Dean steps back allowing Cas to climb out of the cruiser.

“Haven’t seen you around much.” Dean tries when they’ve both had a sec. He gestures to the Strip around them. “Kinda missed your friendly face.”

Wordless Cas motions Dean to spin around.

He obeys. Front facing the cruiser now, Cas motions him forward so his hips come flush against it.

“Have you imbibed any alcohol, any controlled substances?” Cas asks.

“Please, I’m a pro.”

“Usually, pros don’t go around implicating themselves.” Cas comments.

“I’m not here to waste your time Cas,” a sudden sigh wells up in Dean. “We both know what this is.”

He’s close now. _So, close._ Dean represses the urge to sink back into him. Though it is strong. They both know what this is but...does Cas know everything? Does he know Dean does this for him, for them? Hell, Dean wouldn't even be out here if it wasn't for-

“Yes. We do.” Cas says, and though he says it mildly, something about the words sting. A strike of sorts. He presses in even closer.  Dean can feel Cas’ belt bump against his back.

“Hand flat on the bonnet please, do you consent to a search?”

There is no other answer. No other answer at all except for: “yes.”

 

**2015**

Castiel slides out of his cruiser, one hand lowered near the cuffs by his side.  “You are from Kansas?” He asks, already knowing the answer.

There is no deceit, no guile on Dean Winchester’s face. In fact, he seems amused.

Castiel’s not sure what they says about either of them.

“Originally.” Winchester hums. “You?”

“I—”

“C’mon.” Dean pushes with Castiel’s reluctance. “I don’t think for one moment you’re not a local boy. Didn’t even know pretty Woman.”

Castiel frowns. “You seem very fixated upon this film,” he says.

“I mean. Kinda gotta be to get up in this yeah?” Winchester gestures around them. “Vegas is the game capital of the US of A."

“Is it…a documentary?” Castiel finds himself asking.

Winchester shakes his head. “Dude no, listen right, Julia Roberts—”

“The actress?”

“Yeah but the character she plays in this film—”

“Do you consent to a search of your person?” Castiel asks because with the way Winchester is going he’s not going to get a word in edgewise. Never mind the fact that Castiel could just order him to stop talking.

For the first time, Winchester looks ill-at-ease. “Uh, not a lot on me to search Officer.”

“It’s a formality.” Castiel rebuts, hating how heated his face feels.

“So, the only real answer is yes?”

“Yes.”

Winchester’s nose wrinkles. “That’s kinda rapey.”

The step Castiel takes back almost has him stumble ass over the curb. “N-no. I’m just doing my job, sir.”

“Hey, whoa, no worries. I getcha.” He steps forward with his hands out, ill-thought out really, considering he is wearing no shoes. “Don’t crack your skull or something,” he smiles. “And its Dean, oh, do you want me like this.”

He bends, ass out over Castiel’s cruiser.

Castiel knows objectively he’s too young for a heart attack.

That doesn’t stop his chest from feeling like it _imploding_.

“Dean,” he scolds and is instantly adhered to. Winchester straightens, laughs as though in on a joke, as though _making_ a joke. Finally, once he’s calm, Castiel motions for him against to assume the position. Beginning his search with the slightest of breathes in.

Dean smells faintly of cologne.

Castiel is sure that his slightly deeper inhales go unnoticed, he’s positive, he’s sure.

Dean motors on ahead, careless of the way Castiel slides arms around him, searches what little there is to search.

“Anyways, Julia’s this prostitute yeah?” Dean begins. “And this rich business john tricks with her once yeah? But then he’s stuck on her so he picks her up for a weekend starts taking her out to his fancy stuff, buys her shit—”

 

**2018**

 

The Strip is full of energy. The crowd’s shouting, sweating, moving. Cas and Dean are shunted off in their own little corner with the parked cruises. Chrome heats against Dean’s front, hard through his buttoned shirt and jeans.

Even though there’s room, Dean and Cas are tightly packed together, Castiel’s front to Dean’s back. Dean can feel moisture building on the nape of his neck where Cas’ breath hits him. Feels it building under his arms while Castiel touches him. It’s suffocating.

Dean tries to concentrate on the fact that they’re in public, but it’s not as big of a deterrent as he thought it might be. He’s hyper aware of how Cas’ hands are on him.

Dean carefully parts his lips so he can breathe properly for just a second, chest feeling tight. Cas’ hands slide over his back. Up his spine, over his shoulder blades.

Cas steps up behind him, closer, _so close_ , a warm and solid presence. Dean bumps forward against the cruiser, and Cas keeps him pinned there. It’s hard to concentrate on anything else aside from Cas’ breath on his neck, the way fingers slide under his arms, prompting Dean to stretch them out.

He does. Cas pats him down.

Cas’ chest moves against Dean with every exhale. His fingers curl over Dean’s bicep. First one, then the other. On instinct, Dean leans back into the heat, a needy gesture he hopes Cas doesn’t mind or recognize. The hands, on Dean’s shoulders pause.

Dean sucks in a breath. Shivers despite how _hot_ he’s feeling.

Then Cas’ fingers touch his neck. Corded veins fluttering. Dean lets that breath out. Cas’ other hand slides down his side, settling on his hip.

Cas is just getting his balance back, Dean reasons. Sighing into it. Cas searches Dean with one hand, the other fixed to his hip, Dean stays right where he is, knowing, (intoxicated by the way Cas lowers his chin to Dean’s shoulder, one hand skating over his thigh, the other squeezing his side) that this is not your typical search.

It’s touching, it’s claustrophobic, it’s just the two of them in this raging city right now and, when Cas’ arm hooks around Dean’s middle, and draws them together a long line of heat, Dean feels himself falling.

He doesn’t move, not while Cas’ keeps squeezing him, not when Cas turns his face into his neck. If Dean moves it breaks the trance, Cas comes back to himself and they’ll have to admit what’s happening here. What's _been_ happening.

Every fiber of Dean wants to get in closer, skin meeting skin. Put an end to this shitty dancing around one another. It’s a need that’s so unexpectedly powerful then in that moment that it makes Dean’s knees weak, breathless anticipation crawling up his spine.

That’s not the only thing that’s crawling. Within an overwhelming of senses, Dean still feels the moment Cas’ cheek touches the side of his neck, stubble scraping, and the twined movement of his hand sliding down Dean’s side to the edge of his shirt, down and then back up, back up and  _under_.

Skin on skin. Dean’s nerves are alight. He leans his head back, the smallest of fractions.

Dean can’t hear his own thoughts, his pulse is in his ears. Sweaty skin being caressed, damn it, Cas’ fingers are soft, pinching against his side, cupping him. Cas runs over a tender spot and Dean feels his heart like a base drum leap into his throat.

If Dean were drunk he’d let this play out, he’d have the guts maybe to actually do something instead of starving in his own passivity. He's used to being relatively passive against other’s pleasure but this is different. Possibility smolders.

If allowed, he’d press up against Cas, card fingers though his hair, drop that ridiculous belt and tie and drag Cas into the back of his cruiser, Cas' hands all over him. Heat pools in his belly as the fantasy plays out in his head. 

Cas’ hands clutch, his lips brush over Dean’s pulse. One hand sliding upwards against the sweaty skin of his chest, the other sinking back down to brush over the tight, growing _tighter_ jeans. Dean’s answering whisper of a moan does not go unheard and just like that…

Cas draws back, the trance is broken.

The sudden chill makes Dean shiver, all at once the situation comes back to him with painful crystal clarity. Dean braces himself against the cruiser. Hands flat, chest panting.

“Apologies.” Cas says voice rough.  
  
Dean feels a little boneless, like he could slump completely against the cruiser’s hood and just never get up again. He doesn’t. Turns.

Cas looking as wrecked as he feels. Flushed and eyes blown out and shaking. He’s…he’s shaking.

“It’s okay Cas.” Dean manages. Then he realises his pockets are empty.

Then he realises what Cas has in his hands.

Abashed, Cas stands with his eyes averted, from Dean, from what he’s holding.

“Would you believe me if I just said I was out tonight with some friends?” Dean asks jokingly. It’s weak. A shit joke. Cas should know why he's out here... even if he doesn't act like it.

Cas’ silence is a no, and makes him weaker.

“Yeah, don’t blame ya.” Dean mumbles.

Cas sets on the cruisers hood the string of condoms, Dean's money, some sashays of lube. His fingers, nimble, (beautiful fingers Dean thinks, remembering them skating so carefully so tentatively across his side), are curled into his palm.

Before he can say anything Dean sighs.

“Yeah, I know,” he relents, leaning forward to absently finger the string line of condoms Cas has placed in front of him. “Should’a gone for those glowing ones.”

 

**2015**

 

Castiel steps back from Dean Winchester, hoping his hands won’t betray him. No warrants no, but priors for solicitation, trespassing.

Dean Winchester is going to jail tonight.

“This sounds like a horrible film.” He says, telling himself he’s amusing this perp for no other reason than to keep him cooperative.

Though Winchester’s passion for this film is anything but complacent.

“Hey!” He says, whirling around as Castiel has finished his search. “It’s a classic. It’s _romantic._ ”

“Really.” Castiel manages, going for neutral, but something must show on his face.

“You are such a downer man.”

“Forgive me if I don’t find that there’s anything romantic about selling oneself to another,” replies Castiel. “About being in such a low position that you have to resort to solicitation.”

Winchester frowns at him. “Hey, it’s a job like any other. Just—” he turns to look away, down at his bare feet with a grimace. “Chill man. Ow.” Winchester clutches his lower back. “Aww jeez. Pulled something with these things,” he gestures angrily to his heels. “Kinda wish you were a masseur right now.”

“I don’t have those skills.”

“Damn shame. Got a knot too and everything, oww, oww.”

Castiel’s just about reached the end of his rope, Winchester arching his back and chest like that. Slinky clothing riding up in places it _should not_ ride up.

“Do you have a PI, Dean?” using the local term for pimp so there is absolutely no misunderstanding for what Castiel does and does not know.

He knows what Winchester is.

Instantly, Winchester straightens. An expression and a tone falling into him that Castiel hasn’t yet seen from him this evening. “Hell no, I don’t have a PI? You think I’m hooking?”

Castiel rounds to the front of his cruiser, grabs out his pad.

“Seriously, officer, I ain’t in that game.”

“Tricks, PI, hooking, john, game.” Castiel lists off coolly calm, aware that beyond all pretense up to this point, Winchester is a man of stocky build and similar height to him, if he did put up a struggle, he could prove to be formidable.

“For someone who isn’t a prostitute, you do seem to know a lot of the lingo.” Castiel uses finger quotes on the term _lingo._ He gestures to the few strings of condoms he found. “Planning a big night tonight?”

Winchester’s eyes on him are cold. Mouth downturned. “Inappropriate to ask if you’re the Richard Gear type right about now ain’t it?”

“I’ve never had a player try to turn me with movie reviews.” Cas allows.

“Ain’t never come across a man who hasn’t seen Pretty Woman, Kinda distracted me from trying you.” Though Winchester smiles it doesn’t reach his eyes. That flirtyness, Castiel realises, that _act_ , is a front that has outlived its usefulness it seems. “Man, your girl has got to train you on the classic rom coms.”

“I don’t have a girl,” Castiel says without thinking. “Nor do I intend to.”

In less than thirty seconds he realises he’s probably revealed too many of his cards. He flushes.

Winchester’s eyes narrow. His voice is low. “No, sir. I don’t have a PI,” he says.

The lack of comment on what Castiel has given away is...telling. Surprising but, telling.

Castiel looks at him. It's unlikely he isn't tethered. Someone looking as good-ahem, as profitable as Winchester does, must belong to someone. That is just how life out here works.

“But you’re working tonight yes?” Castiel goes for a gentler coaxing, lowering his voice. His new CP Mills is in his head is saying:  _show them you care, that you are here to help._ “Out on the Strip?”

Winchester looks at him, a silent moment, then, nods.

Confirmation. Castiel has what he needs. Pen to paper. He writes out his ticket.

“So, where we at now?” Winchester asks.

Castiel glances up from his page. “Usually when people break the law they go to jail.”

“I’m going to jail then?”

“…No,” Castiel finds himself saying, pen limp against notepad. Form half filled out.

Dean brightens right in front of him, a night sky with fading clouds, stars starting to peak out. Castiel turns his gaze away. “But I have a warning, and a request.”

Dean’s lips purse. His expression skeptical. “Yeah?”

“I-invest in some orthopedic shoes.” Castiel allows, stepping back so he can slide his pad and gear back into the car. He gestures to Dean’s belongings spread out over his hood. Silently, Dean gathers them up.

“It will do wonders for your back.” Castiel explains.

Dean looks at him, things all gathered up in his arms, heels, and wig in hand. He’s backing off, must be thinking at any moment that Castiel is going to rescind his offer to go free, he seems…flighty. He looks at Castiel, a long, meaningful moment.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Officer.” He says, still watching.

Castiel straightens his tie, steps closer to his cruiser. “You have a good night now sir,” Castiel clears his throat. “Go home.”

Dean straightens a little. Jerks his thumb and one heel over his shoulder. “Oh yeah I’m going home, I know when I’m done,” he steps up onto the footpath then turns back around to Cas, looks at him again. Then, smiles the smallest smile. “My own Richard Gear.”

“He still sounds like an ass.” Castiel says.

“But he looks like a silver fox,” Dean winks, turns. His walk is a saunter that draws Castiel’s eyes, down to exposed hips, freckled sides, a plush downright edible—

Castiel backs up so far he smacks into his cruiser. “ _Shit.”_

“Be seeing ya Officer.” Dean calls out behind him. Looks over his shoulder.

“I hope not.” Castiel manages to call back.

He loses Dean’s answering laugh as he escapes into the crowd.

**2018**

 

“You taking me in tonight Cas?” resignation seeps its way into Dean’s vowels. Into his whole body really, a heavy tired thing. “Thought we could hang out a bit more, y’know.” He gestures around them though he isn’t really sure what he’s looking for, what he wants, what they can even have.

Not this. Not here.

And then Cas has to go on being friggen _Novak._ “This is not a—a date Dean.”

Christ, Dean _knows._

Doesn’t make it hurt any less. Goddamnit.

“Yeah, I got that Cas. I get you’re working.” It comes out harder than he meant it.

Castiel turns on him, taught like wire. “Why do you—” he cuts himself off. Looking back to the crowded Strip.

Dean finds himself stepping forward, a few inches off from Cas, he extends one hand. “Hey, c’mon, man. What were you gonna say?”

When Cas eventually speaks, it’s quiet, slow. More that whimper kinda thing than a bang, Dean feels shot by it regardless.

“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” Cas asks.

Dean recoils. “This?”

Cas says nothing, just looks at him. He sighs.

“Cas—”

Cas turns on them, eradicates the distance between them, he steps right up to Dean as close as before, but this time they are face to face, Dean doesn’t pull his hands away when Cas lifts them, but he doesn’t fall into the tenderness either.

Especially not when Cas speaks.

“You don’t have to keep making money this way Dean, you are smart, you are resourceful.”

Dean turns his cheek. “Cas, c’mon man.”

Cas pulls him back, this time lifting a hand to Dean’s face, fingers under his chin, thumb pressing close to his lips. “Dean, _I’m_ serious.” He tilts Dean’s face his way. “There is no reason for you to keep doing this to yourself.”

_You’re disgusting. You’re less. You don’t deserve me like this, doing what you’re doing, who you are._

Dean’s heard this shtick before.

_You could be so much more._

_Better than you are._

_Why do you do this to yourself?_

Dean pries himself away, out of Cas’ reach. Head, hands, heart shaking. Cas knows right? He knows but even then he still, doesn't get it. “Maybe I like it alright?”

Cas parts his lips. “You like—”

Dean steps back further, he is not disgusting, he is not less. People want him, people want him so much they’ll pay for it. Risk jail, risk everything. He is worthwhile. He doesn’t need some smuck friggen cop trying to _save_ him, thinking he’s some charity case. Dean likes himself, likes what he’s doing, he’s _good_ at it. He makes a shit ton of money off it, can afford his place, has all this nice stuff.

The words as Dean says them, come out sharp and edged like knives. “I ain’t Julia friggen Roberts okay, Cas? I _like_ having money, I _like_ having sex.”

It’s Castiel this time who steps back. Dean advances.

“Ain’t hard math here, alright? I’m _comfortable_ where I’m at. Doesn't matter where I work, on the street, in an office. I'm already living the fairytale—”

“But—”

“You don’t need to try and save me Castiel. I don’t need saving.” Dean spits. “And even if I did, I don’t want you to.”

It feels wrong to walk away from this. To let Cas go on living his little fantasy of being Dean’s white knight or some bullshit. Some sick saviour complex fantasy, fuck, with Cas thinking that Dean’s isn’t what he is.

“Cuff me.” Dean orders, and holds both arms out, wrists exposed.

“D—Dean, I…”

“Cuff me, Damnit. Cas. This is what you do to prostitutes right? Well I'm a prostitute, here, at home. I'm a goddamned prostitute. Cuff me, make it stick this time, put me in jail, give me a fine, slap me with a sentence. _Cuff me._ ”

Cas doesn’t shout, he doesn’t swear. He doesn’t cuff Dean, he doesn’t do anything.

He stands there. Looking…

Just, looking. Dean’s gut drops to his knees, as do his hands.

Dean looks back. "Why you doing this to yourself man?"

He doesn't get an answer, but Cas' face cracks.

“Go home Dean,” it's barely really said. It's an echo of a sound, of speech. A splintered, fractures whisper. Cas turns climbing back into his cruiser. “Just... go home.”

 

**2015**

Richard Gear having climbed the building's fire escape  looks Julia Roberts in the eye, their faces so close, the tension is palpable.

Everything has been building to this moment.

“ _So, what happened after he climbed up the tower and rescued her?”_ he asks.

Julia, her character, is all aglow. She's in love she is finally out she is finally happy. She _“rescues him right back.”_

The music swells, their kiss begins and deepens, the camera zooms out and Castiel, looking down at the laptop propped up on his lap, smiles, something that feels more tender than it ever really has before.

It is a rather romantic film after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A usual suspect sheds light on a shady underworld. Officers learn the hard way that even a taser can't take down a suspect. An erratic driver putting her child in danger is questioned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BETCHA THOUGHT I WAS GONE DIDN'T YOU
> 
> Honestly, my writing career IRL has taken priority over fanfic this year and it's all going really well but because of that I haven't had time (or energy) to sit down and write fanfic
> 
> The reason this chapter was written is because of every single person who messaged/dm'd me and commented on this fic. 
> 
> Thank you, all of you for your comments, let me know if you would like more of this (seriously look at what that commenting did, brought this damn thing to life) and I hope, I pray you enjoy.
> 
> ~ Soup xx

_After arrest and before trial comes jail_

_All suspects are innocent until proven guilty in a court of law_

___________

 

Hannah can’t help but notice that the majority of the offenders in the Clark County Detention Centre have tattoos.

There’s a woman on her third DUI of the month with some blue-grey faded script on her forearm. There’s a man with a host of sharp lines and bright colours across his chest, another man with serpents on his neck and a devil’s face on the back of his own. Frank—who after having been filming here for a few weeks now, Hannah has begun to recognise—has some strange cryptography along his fingers. One woman, a regular named Bela who Hannah hasn’t talked to yet, has stars on the inside of her wrist.

Hannah kind of wants one now. A tattoo.

They were standing just out of frame earlier, when Sergeant Hendrickson explained, “First off, we ask about tattoos to scan for any gang affiliation. It also helps with identification, warrant searches and placing vics in holding.”

He was direct, focused and moved offenders efficiently through the process. There was even the smallest crack in his façade when he had said; “You can’t put a FirstBlade and an ArchAngel in the same cell y’know?” and laughed.

Must be cop humor, Hannah figures now. But it’s good to catch Hendrickson at a softer moment. It would be gold if they slot this exchange right before the footage they caught last week of him getting sucker punched by an inmate in the drunk tank, giving Hendrickson something of a character arc. Drum up some more sympathy. Audiences will eat it up.

Second to tattoos, the majority of the Clark County Detention Centre detainees have scars.

Hannah has scars of their own, plenty of them, sure. Markings on their skin that don’t quite elicit the same response as tattoos ‘ohh, what’s the story behind that one?’ ‘why’d you get it?’ ‘It’s so precise.’

No. That line of thought about Hannah’s scars has them far too close to twitching, some deep nerve struck. Hannah isn’t too much of a fan of their puckered whiteness, their skin stretched tight like fence wire in certain places. The sudden desire to get inked up, to cover their old scars is almost painful.

The scars within themselves signpost reinvention, it would be nice, Hannah feels, to pretty them up a bit, make it so they’re actually proud to show them off? Maybe?

Hannah’s thrown from their thoughts by the waiting room door opening, but no, it’s not a new detainee, it’s just Andy coming back from the bathroom. A slip of toilet paper is comically stuck to the bottom of his shoe. He slips, almost face planting the linoleum floor trying to get it unstuck. The three female prostitutes in the back-row giggle. A male detainee makes a snotty noise of derision.

Hannah turns back to their notepad and sighs.

Needless to say; it’s a slow night in the Clark County Detention Centre.

 

___________

 

The waiting room slowly fills over the coming hours. Offenders of all sorts are brought inside, in various states of inebriation. As time slowly drips, some familiar faces start filtering through, of officers and offenders alike.

Novak arrives, bringing with him a handcuffed Dean Winchester around two AM. Handscum arrives with a woman so drunk she’s choking on her own tears—child endangerment Hannah learns while interviewing the offender through the ‘cat flap’ in her cell.

“I didn’t know he was still in the car!”

 

___________

 

Around four AM Captain Jody Mills shatters the relative calm of the waiting room. “Alright! Male moving!”

She commands the room, having to hold the offender with both hands as he struggles and lets loose enough foul language that Hannah feels themself blush. Several officers rush to assist.

“Fucken cunts! Alright, alright! Not so fucken tight!”

Hannah motions Alfie forward and follows him, bringing up the rear of the small assembly now crowding the man. He struggles and huffs but all of the wind is out of him soon enough.

Hannah deflates, and wonders what it’s starting to say about them that they just want _something_ to happen already. Even if that something is a couple of thrown fists. A tantrum. Some drama. Something!

Sensing Hannah’s disinterest, Alfie holds back. “Boss?”

“Forget it.” Hannah tells him, having been through the general process of the Centre enough times now that they’re pretty sure on their own they could arrest, detain and run all the paperwork of any offender. They are sick of the…the damn process already. Where is the story? Where is the character growth? The _conflict_?

“Maybe, head out for a coffee or something.” they say to Alfie, then ask. “What time is it?”

“Around three.” Alfie lowers his camera. “You want one?”

“I won’t sleep if I do. Thank you. I’m alright.”

From the front row comes a voice. “You’ll wanna follow that one.”

It’s Dean Winchester.

When Hannah turns to him he tilts his head after the small assembly of officers. Alfie follows Dean’s gaze with his camera.

“M’serious.” Dean says.

Interest piqued, Hannah steps toward Dean. Permission enough, it seems to get him saying;

“He’s on the Bad Date List. You’ll get some drama with him.”

Alfie throws a glance to Hannah who nods, surprised themself by the sudden trust in Dean. But he seems...knowledgeable. It couldn’t hurt to film one more detainment. Just in case.

Alfie rushes off to follow the arrest, while Hannah steps close to Dean.

They don’t know what the Bad Date List is but they _love_ it already. “What’s the bad date list?”

“A list of johns who, let’s say, sex workers spread around, looking out for one another, Y’know.” Dean says. He shifts in his seat, and looks as though he wants to clutch at the back of his neck with one hand, but the belly chains stop him. Instead he raises his voice, toward the small huddle of unoccupied officers across the room. “Mr Baby’s given you some trouble in the past, ain’t he Cas? He’s bad news!”

Cast— _Novak_ , barely looks over. “Donna will be out with your paperwork soon, Dean.”

Dean smiles and it’s all dimples. “That ain’t a no!”

Castiel doesn’t say a word. He just watches Dean with an affectionate smile of his own and a soft look that seems too intimate to be public.

The moment doesn’t last long before there’s a yell, and a call for backup from Sergeant Mills. Cas and another officer run off toward the back.

The look Dean’s wearing when he turns to Hannah is ‘I told you so’ in five very smug languages.

Huh. Hannah races out to the fray, at the forefront of their mind is the thought of Alfie better be getting this on film.

Second to that though, is the matter of Dean Winchester.

Namely, that they want him on film.

 

___________

 

Dean was right about Mr Baby-- _the male offender._ Hannah’s managed to get a great couple of shots (with Alfie’s help of course) of his attempted break out. The taser fight included, god, this was going to kill on screen. The male offenders arduous go through the process was made almost impossible by his own obstinacy and they even got the chance to interview him after. Doug (a fitting name) is very adamant about speaking to his lawyer and no, he cannot pay his own bail as he spent all his money on ‘dick squealing cunts who don’t know the meaning of a verbal contract and got what was coming to them fucking bitches’.

So yes, he was an overall pleasure. Hannah knows what makes good TV though.

But now things have returned to a comfortable equilibrium. Comfortable if you weren’t trying to sell the Las Vegas Strip as a chaotic, drama filled dangerous hellhole in eighteen twenty-eight minute episodes.

Without looking behind themself, Hannah gestures Alfie and Andy to follow them back through to the waiting room. Scarcely filled, only a spattering of offenders, most sitting alone, the trays for the evening have already been given out, one man in the corner is complaining about the lack of pudding.

Dean Winchester is not complaining, though he does seem quite put out about the lack of the sugary dessert. He barely looks up from his meal as Hannah, Alfie, and Andy approach.

“Hello Dean,” Hannah greets him. “Do you mind if we come talk to you a little?”

Dean looks up at them, then his eyes slide to the camera lens. It can be a little intimidating, Hannah knows, to be confronted by the pearly black scope of a camera as big as the Canon C300 MKII.

Dean’s face runs through an array of complex expressions, but he seems to remember their conversation some time ago about blurring faces, Hannah’s glad for it. He gestures to the empty seat beside him with one cuffed hand.

“Knock yourself out.”

The plastic waiting chairs are uncomfortable to say the least. Hannah appreciates the fact that they’re not chained to one of them, they can’t imagine the discomfort after a couple of hours. Dean especially must be feeling it.

Hannah eases into it. The more this feels like a regular conversation they sense, the easier it will be for Dean. They trust Alfie to find a good angle and for Andy to…make himself useful.

Dean’s munching quite contentedly, though Hannah can tell all of his attention is on them, waiting for them to speak.

“How are you tonight Dean?” they ask.

“M’good,” Dean answers, green eyes flicking across to them. “You?”

Hannah leans in close, talking so it seems as though its just between the two of them. They’ll cross into the shot, they know, but post will be able to overlay Dean’s voice onto some other footage if he says anything interesting. A montage, or simply crop them, it’ll work.

“Admittedly, I’m a little bored.” They say.

Dean hums, looking out across the floor. “A quiet night ain’t so bad,” he sets his tray—now finished— aside. “Less chances of anyone getting hurt. Means people are out their behaving themselves.”

“Like yourself?” Hannah asks.

Dean just smirks, something slow and to himself. “This place’s got you thinking a certain way right? About me. About sex work?”

It’s…not what Hannah was expecting. A little taken aback, they shift in their seat. “I don’t know what you mean?”

Dean doesn’t really reply to them. He does look at them, but— Hannah knows this look, it’s the look of someone who has something to say, knows what they want to say and is _going_ to say it.

Dean folds his arms, as much as he can, across his waist. “Y’know I have an assistant? Helps me out with all the admin.”

Hannah blinks. “Sex work has admin?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” When Dean laughs it’s captivating. His whole face lighting up. “Lemme guess, when I say sex work you think STD ridden cracked out whore who stalks the night and cowers to her PI. And if it’s a guy you think queer twink with daddy issues?”

It’s not incredibly far off the mark, no. For a second, just a second, the smallest one—Hannah forgets the camera is on them. “I wouldn’t characterise you as a twink Dean.”

They’re glad that he takes that lightly, laughing loud and hard enough that his head tilts back, that an officer on the other side of the room looks over to them. Luckily, Hannah and their crew have been here long enough now that the officers know not to mess up the shot, or to at least not stop the offenders when interviewed from being themselves. Unless, of course, there’s a safety risk.

Maybe it’s the handcuffs, the charm or just Dean himself, but Hannah feels pretty safe with him.

“Fair.” Dean says, but then goes on. “What I mean is, you have’ta understand that people mostly just think street work when they think sex worker. That’s the kind you catch with your cameras,” he waves a hand in Alfie’s direction. “That’s the kind in all the movies. But, y’know, it’s actually more of a spectrum, with no top of the rung or bottom of the run just, different gradients.”

Dean pauses a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Like, you see street sex workers as the lowest of the low right? And then you’ve got the high class “happy whores” deal at the other end, ya paid girlfriends, ya escorts. But actually there’s not a lot of street sex workers anymore, like, you get a concentration here, city of sin and all but most of us are just doing our jobs all over the place. You got your brothels, your self employeds, internet now—your chats and cams and stuff, and y’know, burlesque. Stripping.”

“So, you’re a street worker?” Hannah asks for clarification.

“Don’t let the cuffs fool you.” Dean smiles. “I’m a boneafide businessman. Got my own website and everything. I’m self employed, started on the street with a PI, worked my way up and out and now I’m all sorts of glamourous.” The smile widens, there’s an openess Hannah didn’t readily anticipate with Dean, and a...pride they certainly didn’t expect when he talks about his work as a prost--as a sex worker.

“I pull some nights at my friends brothel sometimes, but for the most part I do my own networking, that’s what I mean about the admin. I still have to pay for my transport, my own supplies, my own clothing. There’s some outlay, double that with advertisement, marketing and the all important health routine. Took me a few months to get my staffing right too, y’know, I have an office? Gotta with all the damn admin, hiring hotels or organizing apartments or phones.”

“That sounds, more involved than I expected,” says Hannah

Dean shrugs. “Told’ya I’m a business. And, yeah, that’s what I mean when I say I got an assistant, ‘cause the administrative side of sex work can be just, mundane as fuck. For every hour spent with a client, it takes four to five hours of emailing, texting, calling, twittering, booking hotels, making appointments and all the other monotonous bullshit most would associate with a ‘real’ job.”

Hannah feels Alfie shift closer behind them.

Dean sets his plastic fork down on the side of his tray, giving up entirely on picking at his food, focused wholly and completely on them. On getting his perspective across.  “I’m constantly managing phones, or constantly answering emails or constantly trying to have to be in contact almost 24/7 with clients, managing apartments, managing tours, all this sort of stuff. I’m taking a class now in Burlesque, I train. I wanna open my own place someday, have my own show.”

“Really?”

“That’s why it’s frustrating when I can see you’ve got certain ideas about me. I mean, prostitution is the world’s oldest profession, right? And y’know despite this everyone’s always looking down on sex workers, assuming we’re doing our jobs out of desperation or because we were forced into it. Ain’t saying that that’s true for everyone, but that’s _my_ story. For your--” Dean looks directly into Alfie’s camera, a twist to his mouth. “All your lovely viewers out there.”

He winks.

Hannah’s pretty sure Alfie swoons and almost drops the camera. He swears and juggles it back into position. Andy snorts and Dean, graciously, returns his attention to them. An amused kick to his lips.

Hannah, patient, a saint really, waits for Alfie to collect himself and reposition before prompting Dean further.

As a child, Hannah grew up with their father, working in his woodshed. A carpenter and the son of carpenters their father devoted his life to the placement of wood, metal, nail, the creation of something beautiful- construction with a plan and a goal all achieved through measures steps, thought out ideas. Hannah--when they’d join him, with earmuffs too big for their head and sawdust smattering their hair--learnt very quickly the best way to hit a nail directly on its head. The best cabinets are made with the most well places blows.

“If this is true” they begin, with a measured tone. “Then why do you keep going out on the street and wind up here,” they gesture to the detention centre around them, “arrested for solicitation and loitering?”

Dean is quite for a long, drawn out moment.

“Putting aside the politics and bullshit of it all? Y’know what they say about old habits.’ he answers, looking past Hannah’s shoulder to...to where Novak is standing, speaking to a coworker while surveying the room with his eyes.

Huh.

Hannah speaks to Dean gently. “Being arrested all the time, probably isn’t helping with your _image_ problem.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes. His eyes flit to Hannah, his voice a quiet but _excited_ little murmur. “But it’s a little exciting you know?” His smile’s sheepish, almost. A sweet, vulnerable little thing that comes only when there’s a feeling so big within you, that others can discover it just by looking over. Because sometimes feelings that big and deep and universal can be defined by just the upturn of a lip. The crease of a dimple. Even when you can’t admit it to yourself.

“Can’t say I do.” Hannah says, and looks over again to Novak. “But, I can imagine.”

Dean huffs a self conscious sound. “It’s stupid right? I’m stupid. We’re too complicated, I’m just--” his fingers dance across his belly chains. “Stupid.”

“Well,” the idea of consistently and seriously putting oneself in harms way, with the street and the law and having to be in jail and go to court and pay bail and pay fines, risking prison time, all for… a complicated (and perhaps onesided) relationship, is not something that Hannah can really wrap their brain around. It seems to be nothing but detrimental to Dean’s wellbeing (and bank account).

“It’s your time and money and freedom.” They settle on diplomatically.

Dean’s nose wrinkles with distaste. “I haven’t…actually thought of it like that? We’ve just been like this for so long, this…I dunno rut? I don’t even think he’d know what to say to me if he saw me at the grocery store or like a Walmart or something. Or even fuck at a show!”

“He seems like a stickler for the rules.” Hannah says carefully. “Rules you seem intent on breaking.”

Dean lets out an exasperated sound, a post-verbal ‘I know right’. He goes to cross his legs but can’t with his chains and tray. He huffs and semi-folds his arms instead. “But then, you don’t know him proper. Cas is, can be a bit of a rebel. Guy just needs to friggen unclench--”

The very man in question calls out from the other side of the room. “De—ahem,” he coughs. “Winchester, you’re up.”

There is no sign or clue to Novak having heard their discussion. No actions or glances to suggest he heard anything, Hannah supposes he is working after all, and the process waits for no one.

Dean sets his tray aside and gets out of his seat. “My chariot awaits.” He says to Hannah. Hannah stands with him.

“It has been...enlightening.” they admit, then add on. “A pleasure.”

Really. It has been. Their own smile feels large on their face. Mind cycling and whirling, a bit of a rush, as though coming out of a dizzy spell.

They’ve learnt a lot tonight and want to learn more.

“Likewise.” Dean says, his belly chains rattling as he offers them and the camera half a salute, backing up toward where Novak is waiting to move him along.

 

___________

 

Hannah thinks about Dean Winchester well into the night, the next day, and the next night. Once again it is quiet night at the Clarke County Detention Centre, but there are some story holes in the show Hannah needs filled (holes that have been requested of them to fill) so, Donahue is their focus tonight.

Despite Hannah’s mind being on other things.

Filmmakers were passionate people, some of whom dedicated their whole lives to the pursuit of unbiased truth. Given the wealth of information, technique and craft that needed sorting through, and dedication to, Hannah never had the luxury between their health care concerns, their schooling debts and the general drudgery of life, to really entertain ever feeding that passion they had as a kid to create something. To hit the nail on the head. To craft story for the screen.

The majority of amateur filmmakers relied upon other professional and lucrative pursuits in order to keep treading water. Most gave up their passion entirely. Even now, as an adult, Hannah always imagined one day working on their own project. Their passion lay in the documentary, which is what lead them into the arena of this job, but they had always wanted something of their own.  

Reality TV was not a documentary. Scene choices and clever editing were not the navigation of a story and the construction Hannah always imagined or romanticised, for themself.  In college they dreamed of making good things, they did make good things, great things. Once.

“Alright turn to the wall spread your legs.” Donahue says, as command or order are not words any person would associate with the perpetually red faced officer.  

Sometimes, Hannah hates people, but they love their work, they love film and they are damn good at it.

“You have anything in your pockets? No?” Donahue nudges his detainee along.

But filming is their passion. Production, creation, direction, story. Not this.

“Stand on the red line, hands behind your back.” says Donahue.

Sidestepping various cords and Andy’s loitering, Hannah sidles up beside Alfie, close, far closer than they’ve really been before, to whisper in his ear.

“I have an idea.”

Alfie starts. “Jesus, Hannah.” He straightens and rolls back his shoulders, “Is it to get a different angle on this search because I--”

“How would you feel about filming, outside of work hours?” Hannah whispers to him.

“Filming what?”

“A side project, something... ” meaningful. Hannah passes a careful hand through their hair. “Think _Sundance_.”

Alfie’s profile lights up. His eyes flit to them, but Hannah can’t truly read his expression. They realise, rather abruptly that for coworkers who spend as much time with each other as they do, in a variety of situations, they don’t really know one another.

The thoughts a little sobering, but Hannah is determined.

“Will I get paid?” he asks.

Hannah is careful to keep the slight downturn to their mouth invisible. A barely perceptible movement. They work a reassuring expression to their features, mind already on other things. “I think we can work something out. Don’t answer now. Think about it. We’ll get this done.” they step back from him, follow Donahue and his detainee through to the other room. They may have ideas and plans but they still have a job to do. “And we’ll talk about it later.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys at work

**DEAN**

 

Vegas, in the daytime could be a beautiful thing, but it was hard to not forget that reality didn’t start or end with the Boulevard. You had to remind yourself that this scrap of land, lined with resort hotels, clubs and casinos wasn’t the be all and end all of life. That it was more than just a pretty picture or a destination for travellers. The City of Sin.

Vegas, is and has been for several years now, Dean’s home.

Dean watches public transit in motion from his perch upon a bench in the sun. He can see dawdlers crowded around the Palace’s fountain that wasn’t due to put on a show for another twenty minutes at least. He hears a burst of laughter from another nearby crowd gathered around a Batman on a unicycle.

Dean prefers Las Vegas to Lawrence Kansas or even Sammy’s place up in California for simple reasons. He’s a simple guy, after all, has got simple needs and Vegas is an easy city for him to wrap his head around. He gets how life works here. Best thing Dean has ever done for himself, he reckons, is moving out here, second maybe to moving out of his Mum’n’Dad’s house and in with Bobby Singer those first few years after high school.

Not something Dean really needs to think about right now. No point in spoiling the view.

He’s never been to Disneyland, (had wanted desperately so much to go as a kid got around to it...life) but he has to think that the Happiest Place on Earth might be a little something like this. There are just so many people. So many people having a good time, enjoying themselves. And people just like Dean, with places to go. Matters to attend to.

Dean gets up, tugging the strap of his bag up and over his shoulder.

It’s late afternoon, though with the Vegas sun you wouldn’t think it was anything other than midday. It’s closer to evening then lunch and Dean is halfway through what he considers one of his easier workdays.

Easy as for the most part there’s little paperwork, scheduling, phones or appointments with GP’s he needs to get to. All he has to do today is show up at the places and with the people he’s agreed to show up with, and work his magic.

Dean hums a little as he walks, headphones in his ears. His hair’s still wet from his last shower with (and after) his last client. It’s dribbling a little down the back of his neck. He lifts a hand to scrub a spot and passes two girls in bikinis There’s no beach over around here, but that doesn’t stop visitors mostly everyone’s wearing clothes that only really count as such because of weird societal hangups (seriously, what’s the difference between a bikini top and a bra?), but hey, Dean ain’t one to talk, he ain’t complaining.

They smile at him. He winks. Their smiles widen, eyes duck away. One girl grabs the other as she winks back before bursting into giggles.

Dean hopes that they know it’s illegal to wade into the Palace’s fountain.

 

___________

 

The Encore is a resort suite which now-a-days almost feels like Dean’s second office. That isn’t a bad thing, as far as offices go, he could do worse. And hey, for the (convenient) location, (useful) amenities and (kinda stuffy but still, sinking-into-deep-fluffy-pillows-in-a-hotel-room-bigger-than-Dean’s-apartment, luxurious) atmosphere, the price you have’ta pay is a good one.

It’s on the upper tier as far as hotels on the strip went, when Dean’s customers could afford the best, they got the best besides, Tessa had booked him for the whole night, so they both deserve at least to feel safe and comfortable. The Encore was her favourite.

Also Dean lives for a potential sex pun.

Most people checking into the Encore have made the trip for pleasure, retreat, carrying luggage accordingly. Dean carries nothing on him more than his small knapsack. Inside; his Wallet, phone, charger and supplies, just personal effects, and the clothes on his back. Loose fitting, but still _fitting,_ y’know. He was on the clock though, that being said, he wouldn’t need them for long.

Dean works his way through the Encores’ floor. Rich red carpet, cream walls with ornate carvings greeting him. Dean doesn’t head upstairs right away, unsure if Tessa’s already arrived or if she’s yet to get in, either way they’re not meeting till five. He heads for the restaurant-slash-bar.

Dean’s seated by Connor, a server he’s familiar with enough to have the phrase “your usual?” tossed his way. Dean declines.

Any other time he would’ve treated himself to a drink, something salty or sweet to eat, but instead he plucks out his phone and hits a number on his speed dial.

A picks up quickly.

“I want to ask you something.” A says in leui of hello and before Dean can say anything himself.

There’s this way A sounds when she speaks, manically giddy, cartoonish almost. It undercuts the reality of an adaptable business woman, quick to anger, ambitious, darkly funny. Only people who knew A knew weren’t completely turned off by their first...second...even third impressions of her. Dean liked to think that he was one of the few who _did_ know her. One of the few who had garnered some form of respect from her.

Or at least not outright disdain.

A was not someone who's bad side you wanted to be on.

“ _I_ called _you_ , Abby.”

Abby, AKA, Abigail AKA,  A (Abbadon) to those who’ve worked with (for) her, sniffs. “You called?”

“Yesterday.” Dean says, leaning back in his seat. He cuts right to the quick. “Krissy has a parent teacher meeting coming up.” Silence on the other end of the line, no sign of affirmation or acknowledgement. Dean prompts further. “You going?”

Abby’s voice is so steady you could balance a tower of glasses upon it. “When?”

“Thursday.”

“Shit.” Abby says. “Schedule.” Her next words come out sounding far away, as though the phone’s held away from her ear. Dean hears the distinct sound of rifling below the fervent, yet murmured: “I’m not her fucking mother.”

He says nothing to that.

Abby sighs. After a minute or two she relents. “I’ll go.” Dean’s surprised a little, but not disappointed, Krissy offhandedly mentioned (in that way kids mention things they ‘don’t really care about’ but actually kinda do) the meeting last week. A parent teacher meeting though, that’s not something Dean himself thinks he equipped to handle, he’s not a _parent_ , more so of a _big brother_ type. Literally— Abby cuts through his thoughts.

“While I have you,” she starts, “Some of the girls have been looking at that, link thing, you passed around—”

Dean has half a mind to address that tone she’s giving him, condescending almost, it’s not just some link it’s the SWOPUSA website, Jesus, but he doesn’t get the chance to however, because Tessa is here, or at least, being welcomed by Connor at the entrance, a suitcase trailing behind her. She must have just got in.

“Gotta go.” Dean cuts Abby off, hanging up without waiting for a reply (he’s gonna pay for that slight later). Tessa is finely dressed. She crosses the floor between them with the kind of assurance and confidence only a regular has approaching him.

Even then Dean picks up on a lot. The tense line of her shoulders, the mix of relief and embarrassment at that relief playing across her face. Dean guesses, having less to do with the idea of him not being a sure thing (he is) but more so to do with the fact that he’s here at all.

Relief is a emotion within others Dean’s pretty familiar with.

“So, heard you had a long day,” he says as she approaches.

Tessa doesn’t sit down, though she does release the handle of her bag. She stands before him, over him, and gives another small embarrassed laugh. It’s endearing.

Tessa shakes her head and reaches over to pluck at the strap of Dean’s bag that he hasn’t removed. When she looks up one artfully filled brow is raised. “Did you now?”

“Charlie’s guess at least.” Dean says. Charlie, his Admin, she’s good, real good at her job. But Dean thinks she didn’t need to use all her Nacy Drewing desk and people skills to be able to pick up on the sheer exhaustion radiating out like a blast wave.

“She wrong?” asks Dean.

Tessa counters. “Is she usually?” She laughs, making no attempt to sit. She reaches back for her bag and turns back the way she came, an invitation to follow, one Dean accepts. As he’s getting up she throws out behind her. “Points for perception.”

Dean smiles, following her. He likes Tessa. They head upstairs together, Dean slipping one arm around her waist, the other he uses to sneak around and slip between her and her suitcase. Tessa lets him take the handle.

 

___________

 

While the Encore itself is inviting, the room upstairs is even more so. Clean and inviting, Tessa goes to wash up in the bathroom while Dean sets his knapsack down by the bed, Tessa’s suitcase by the door.

The decor’s classy, simple. Unlike the majority along the Strip. On a cherry red side table there’s bottles of drink, and there’s snacks too. Complimentary. Really, Dean loves it. You don’t get this classiness out in Lawrence Kansas no way, no how. You don’t get it doing street work either which is a factor, Dean is always glad to bring up with the younger girls. If a person really wanted to make sex work _their_ work, why not do it in style?

Tessa exits the bathroom with a freshly wet face, her minimal makeup already washed away, she’s flat footed, heels left somewhere by the door. Her shirt is popped open a few buttons, she sees Dean sitting on the bed and even after all this time, all of their sessions together, she blushes, one hand arching up to second guess her own level of comfort.

“I—” Tess starts.

Dean’s phone goes off. Without looking at who’s called Dean reaches into his pocket and shuts the thing off. He then sets his phone with his other things, kicking off his shoes by the side of the bed.

“Sorry,” Dean says, relaxing back a bit onto a (plush) bed that’s not at all as friggin _glorious_ as his memory foam mattress at home, but it is comfortable. “You were saying?”

Tessa shifts her weight. “It’s nothing.”

Dean says nothing, not pushing not dismissing. He gets up, and heads over to the snacks, huh. He ignores the brie and grapes and whatever that other fancy shit is, weird vegan crackers, jeez, and goes over to the kitchen, aware of Tessa’s eyes on him. He returns with a small bag of pretzels, seven dollars sheesh, opens them up and before taking a couple for himself. He then offers Tessa the bag.

She laughs. Smiles, still takes a couple pretzels, though. So that’s a win.

Tessa probably gets Dean’s work more than most as she too had strangers bodies placed in her care on the daily, as a surgeon. Tessa wanted her respect matched, she wanted to put her body in the hands of a professional, Dean knew, someone who she felt would do as she did. Try their hardest to leave bodies in a better way then they had found them.

Health and wellness, the tenants of sex work. Mutual comfort was paramount, neither party was pressured to do anything. Communication, ignore the cliche, was key. More clients then one might expect just wanted to hang out with Dean, kiss a little, be pampered and simply just _talk_ to someone, usually veering on the older end of the spectrum, but that was nothing concrete. All people needed different things for different reasons, Dean had had enough therapy over the years and sorted out enough within himself to know that a particular need of his own was to care for other people. In whatever way he was able.

It goes without saying that to be a sex worker you had to really like people, like making them feel good and taking care of them. Things Dean hadn’t admitted to himself (let alone anyone else) for a long time that he took a lot of pride in. Got the greatest enjoyment out of.

Tessa for one, calls Dean up when she gets breaks from work, when she needs a change of pace.

Right now she is tired in a quiet, everyday way.

Tessa takes a few more pretzels. Already her posture easing. “These things cost a fortune."

“S’alright. Business expenditure.” Dean shrugs.

“In that case—” Tessa takes a couple more. Then she heads on over to the kitchen as well, like Dean, ignoring the set aside goodies. She retrieves a box of Hersey’s Kisses, and a bottle of Coke, and returns.

“No Pepsi?” Dean asks.

Tessa looks at him. “Uh, heathen?”

“Hey now, this is supposed to be a no judgement zone.”

“Some things are not beyond reproach, Dean.”

“Please. Don’t.” Dean says flopping back on the bed. “You sound like a mother.”

“I _am_ a mother.” Tessa replies easily, coming to sit on the bed beside him. Dean has no reaction, yeah, he knew this, though it’s not really something _he’s_ personally invested in knowing or not knowing. There’s not a little post it in Tessa’s file that says “Is Mom” like a warning or something, it’s just… come up in conversation between them before.

She’s got at least one kid, or maybe a couple, they don’t get into those things much. But what Tessa does have is a note in her file that says she always follows the rules, that her health records are up to snuff, she’s clean. It records some of her preferences, hard lines, soft lines things like that. Normal stuff, at least in this kind of work. Charlie certainly doesn’t take any chances in admin when running her background checks, but she doesn’t share any unneeded information she unearths to Dean.

There’s lines to screening people that you just don’t cross.

Dean rolls onto his side tucking one arm beneath him. “So, long day?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Tessa says, in a tone of voice Dean’s familiar enough with to know it means; I don’t want to talk about it _right now_. He doesn’t move, just lies passively when Tessa reaches out to him.

Dean doesn’t think about Cas when he’s working or really, doesn’t think about Cas when he’s having sex with other people. It would be a bit like thinking of your crush while you filed paperwork, maybe. Sorta. If filing paperwork was something you did, or at least wanted to do with this other person, but… like... fun, sexy paperwork?

This analogy is getting away from him.

Either way, Dean’s very good at carpmentalising.

Tessa’s hand touches his thigh.

“Hi,” she says.

The corner of Dean’s mouth kicks up. “Hey, there.”

 

___________

 

While Dean loves his work, he acknowledges that it isn’t always easy or _for_ everyone. He knows sex workers are being abused and even murdered on the job, unprotected by the law. They’re less likely to report rape, and sexual assault to the police, especially trans women, especially trans women of colour.

It’s a complicated job, a taxing one, even when you can count on most days going exactly the way you expected them to when you woke up. Everything so meticulously, finely planned. Compared to what he came from, his first few years on the street and before that the constant familiar chaos of home, Dean values that.

While saying goodbye outside the Encore Tessa cups his check.

“Getting scruffy.” She notes, thumb moving softly over a bristled ridge.

Dean huffs, amused. “You didn’t seem to mind earlier.”

Tessa’s own laugh is relaxed now, sated. It’s a low pleasing rumble. Her other hand grazes his. “You should try it.”

“What?”

“The bearded look.” Tessa pulls back from him, as though to get a better vantage point to take him all in. “You’ll look—”

“Distinguished?” Dean asks with a knowing quirk to his lips.

“Older.”

Dean barks out a laugh. “Gee, well, thanks.”

“I’m serious.” Tessa says, she leans down, taking her suitcase in hand as her taxi rounds the corner and pulls up beside them. Dean heads over to the boot to open it up, Tessa lifts her case inside. “But, you seem tired too.” She closes the trunk.

That—that came out of nowhere.

There must be something showing on Dean’s face because Tessa blanches, their quiet intimacy broken she steps back from him. “I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s fine.” Dean says. It is, it’s…fine. “I am a bit tired.” He admits, words coming out before he really thinks about them. Individually. Together, as a sentence. “Such a taxing job y’know. Hanging out with cool chicks—”

Tessa’s nose wrinkles. “You’re impossible.”

The ground beneath Dean’s feat eases a little. He gestures to the Taxi. “You’re about to be late.”

“You’re _exhausting_.”

“Make sure to put that in your Google review,” Dean says cocking one hip. “Dean W, _exhausted_ me all night long he—”

Tessa cuts him off by stepping forward, tilting up, and placing a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.” She says, which if it were anyone other that sweet, caring, considerate Tessa would sound weird. Who thanks another person for sex? Sex they _paid_ for. Sometimes people get weird around sex workers.

She squeezes his hand. She speaks low, just between the two of them. “But remember to look after yourself sometimes too okay? What’ll I do with you if you burn out on me?”

The observation, and in fact, Tessa saying anything about this at all, catches Dean enough off guard that his response is slow and pretty weak, even to his own ears, when it eventually is _burped_ out of him.

“Well, we can try that thing with the blindfold, you were talking about.”

“Oh my god.” Tessa breathes around an amused huff, the taxi beeps. She glances to him, turns back to Dean. “Gotta go.”

“As always, it’s been a pleasure.”

Tessa flushes, clearly pleased. “Likewise and I mean it.”

She doesn’t stay for a rebuttal or anything, sliding into the taxi a little lighter, a little more at ease than when she first came up to Dean yesterday. The line of her shoulders is a curve, set back against the leather seats, already before the taxi has even pulled out Tessa’s on her phone. Back into reality, back at her work. Her one night reprieve with Dean, already a memory.

Phone. Right. Dean shoulders his own bag, reaching inside to pull out his phone. He hasn’t turned the damn thing on since turning it off last night, kinda _distracted_ with everything but—

The damn thing nearly vibrates out of his damn hands on onto the pavement, Jesus it is going _off._

There’s about a half a dozen texts and missed calls from Charlie. Shit. And that’s not all but—

Dean’s about to swipe on her number when another incoming calls sounds off. Unthinking, he swipes to answer and it isn’t till the last moment as he lifts the phone to his ear when he realises the caller ID was _DAD._

“Morning, Sir?” Less of a greeting. More of a question.

“You forgot didn’t you.” John Winchester’s voice is gruff, tired down the line. “You never answer your phone anymore? Had your girl on it and everything--”

By ‘your girl’ John means Charlie which, is a whole assortment of issues Dean’s not gonna unpack now. But the sheer amount of calls is disturbing, and the fact thatJohn rang his work phone at all—is enough to put Dean on edge.

“I was...with a client.” There’s only a seconds pause there but it’s enough. John huffs disapprovingly, but thankfully says nothing of it. It’s too early to get into it now with him, Dean just doesn’t have the mental energy. “Is Mum okay? Is Sammy--”

“So, you remember him now.”

“What?”  
  
“Your brother.”  
  
It takes Dean a second, he pulls back to put John on speaker, staring down at his phone, at the date. He picks up the pace, bag bouncing against his hip, he’s not far from where he parked yesterday. Dean’s once leisurely walk becomes a jog.

“He’s not coming up till the seventh.”

John sighs.

A sprint.  
  
“ _Twenty_ seventh,” he says. “Your brother’s plane landed this morning.”

Sammy’s plane, their plan. Sam staying with him for awhile while he’s not being pressed into the literal earth under the weight of his degree--no they said the seventh, they said...

“Fucking shit.” The Strip’s pavements hard against Dean’s feet as he starts to run.

 

 

 

**CASTIEL**

 

Some nights Castiel’s work feels long and pointless.

Tonight happens to be one of those nights, one of those shifts. When Castiel closes his eyes, mug in hand, and leans against the far wall of the break room, all he can think about is how quiet and empty the Clark County Prison seems and it isn’t because it’s quieter than any other night— is no less full or busy. No.

For as long as Castiel can remember, or more honestly the last three years, Dean has been a part of his night shifts. From a simple glance and nod on the street outside the clubs to full conversations against Castiel's car during a search. From Castiel overhearing his witticisms from across the waiting room, Castiel taking in the little shimmying Dean would do when seated to get his belly chains to sit right, to simply hearing his voice on the regular.

It is strange having not even a glimpse of Dean Winchester in seven days. Dean's absence has made everything else so much quieter in comparison.  
  
Dull.

Castiel is not...moping.

He is not.

He knows this contrast is emphasized by his knowledge of Dean’s...extracurriculars. The knowledge that Dean is not just out living his life, working a nine-to-five or dozing on the couch on weekends off, but instead is out there (most likely) in danger, (most certainly) breaking the law, has honestly been enough in the last week to drive Castiel out to the streets outside of patrol hours, eyes peeled.

Castiel scrubs a hand over his face. At the last second he catches the precariously tilting coffee mug in his other, a few dregs of cooling sludge escape and slide down around his fingers. He sighs, reliving within the span of a blink, that moment weeks ago when he had had Dean’s body beneath his hands, the man himself pressed close to him. He scrubs such thoughts away.

When you have something steady, something near reliable for _years,_ to have it suddenly taken from you— Castiel rationalises to himself, would be enough to set anyone out of sorts. It’s fine.  
  
He’s fine.

Though...back then it had been on the tip of his tongue— to ask Dean what this was, what they were, what he felt they could be—no, that inquiry was ground Castiel could not cross. In his memory Dean had shifted, the handcuffs—the responsibility in Castiel’s hands clanging, a metallic reminder and the moment passed.

Then of course Castiel had opened his mouth. Then of course Dean got defensive.

Things were just starting to get back on track between them when Mx Johnson stepped in that night, sitting and talking to Dean for a long while. Too long for any sort of simple inquiry.

Long enough, it seemed, to get Dean off the street and out of Castiel’s world.

Castiel is, in a word, smitten. He can admit that. He also admits that the feelings he has developed for Dean are unwise, ill-timed and dangerous. Getting distracted by Dean (Oh, how Dean could distract him so _easily_ ), can prove to have serious, long lasting consequences for Castiel. For his work, his position (both of which he is proud of, both he does still enjoy, for the most part).

Dean is surely not without his own struggles, Castiel hasn’t a vast knowledge of Dean’s personal life, certainly not anything beyond what wasn’t readily offered by the man himself (Dean did enjoy talking about himself, but in the way one talks at dinner parties, surface, base level commentary, nothing entirely _real)_ but surely someone like Dean in the position he was in with his work and...with Castiel, was treading water.

Castiel’s never dug too deeply when Dean talked about Sam, his brother, but from what he has been able to gleam from conversations through the plexiglass in the back of his patrol car; the brothers’ childhood had been a difficult one, an estrangement between the two of them perhaps even Dean and the rest of his family for some time, and their reconnection only occurring in the last few years.

Castiel was sure that Dean’s reforging of a relationship with his immediate family meant he was trying to get out of the game. Castiel’s complicated intrusion upon that (born from a bond that was never supposed to have existed in the first place), could jeopardize that.

So, despite the yearning in his gut to reach out a hand to end this stalemate he and Dean had fallen into, to give into his own yearnings, to gently cup Dean’s jaw—Castiel  cannot, does not push. He isn’t even entirely sure that Dean thinks of him in that manner. He thinks back on specific moments between them, wondering if on Dean’s end he longs for more than a simple tumble in the sheets.

Castiel couldn’t just be another client to Dean, it was hard to think about, the possibility of all this tension, this tightness in his chest and breathlessness in his body being nothing more than another warm paycheck to Dean. Not when Castiel so often walked into his own kitchen early mornings, bare feet padding on tile floor, and found himself wishing, for a moment, for someone else to already be there. 

Castiel’s sludgy coffee is cold when he sips it. As unappetising as his own thoughts, which he cuts off now, aware of his own spiraling. No, he has to refocus. He is at work.

Last week, Dean had been here, everything had been normal (so Castiel thought). Now he is gone.

What had Hannah said to him?

“You o’right there?”

Castiel blinks, and finds Officer Hanscum— _Donna_ looking at him.

“Staring awfully hard into the middle distance there Castiel,” she comments though her tone is light. Cheerful. She sits at the table in the centre of the break room, stirring her own mug with a detached, but strangely focused on _him_ , expression. Castiel isn’t sure when she arrived, yet it says something about his own mind that he hadn’t noticed her entrance, or goings on for at least several minutes.

She must have made a fresh pot of coffee. Castiel wanders on over to the sink to dump his own muddy waste.

“Are you feeling okay?” Donna asks his back.  
  
Castiel feels his shoulders inwardly hunch. His fresh uniform dragging heavy across his skin. He rinses his mug. Pours himself a mug anew.

“Fine,” it is not a mumble just… an answer Castiel decides to direct to his shoes. His shiny shoes, he polished them yesterday, pressed his slacks, ironed his shirt, he even put his tie on right-to-front. It’s hard to rid his head of the image of Dean’s thick, calloused fingers looping around his tie and tugging him forward.

_Uniform looks good on you, Cas._

_Don’t they teach you to ties these things?_

“You’re looking spiffy.” Donna observes, smiling. “You aren’t wearing that out tonight are you? You brought a change of clothes?”  
  
Castiel looks up at her. Then back down to himself. Blinks. He _had_ been planning to wear the shoes and slacks. “I have another shirt.”  
  
Hendrickson enters the break room in mostly the same way he enters every room; with a cocked brow and already comfortable in the conversation, inserting himself easily. “You changing here, Novak? Bold, considering.” He smirks.

Though both Castiel and Donna look to him, it is Donna who speaks. “Considering?”  
  
“All those,” Hendrickson waves a distasteful hand. His tone shifting. “Cameras. In our faces. In our work. How long do you feel they’ll be sticking their noses in?” he pours his own coffee quicker than Castiel, then takes the far seat at the table.

“You can’t go to Garth’s bachelor party in your uniform,” Donna says to Castiel, then answers Hendrickson. “For another couple’a months, I reckon.”

Hendrickson pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Jesus.”  
  
“It isn’t that bad.” Donna scolds him, but only mildly. “I think it’s kinda flattering, being interesting enough to be on tv.”  
  
Castiel works his own answer around in his mouth before offering. “It is...trying.”

His thoughts (until recently) in regards to their new audience have been, mild, unbothered. Tonight however, he’s tense.

For the most part Mx Johnson—Hannah, and their crew have been surprisingly professional though their presence by virtue of being rather intrusive, has caused something of a ruffling of feathers amongst the County staff and a strange bravado amongst the detainees.

Dean however, blossoms on film.

At least he did.

What did Hannah say to him, to get him to just _disappear_ ?  
  
“Had them tagging along for a patrol last weekend,” Hendrickson goes on. “Did nothing but got in the way, not to mention the way the vics just light up, knowing they’re gonna make it big on TV or something. It’s like we’re rewarding them.” He frowns into the middle distance.

“Oh shussh, it’s harmless. Educational.” Donna turns to Castiel for backup, yet gets none. Castiel’s mind is on other things, he doesn’t notice Donna’s trying to get his attention until she flicks a peppercorn sized something at him.  
  
Castiel starts. Donna asks:  “Seriously, what is eating you?”  
  
Hendrickson looks over at him from over the top of his mug. “You’re wound tighter than a screw, Novak. Tonight’ll be good for you. Good for all of us, get away from this.”  
  
Donna frowns. “Aren’t you on full patrol?”  
  
“Trying to convince Garth to move the nights proceedings along to a more traditional location.” Hendrickson smiles around a ceramic rim. “Whoever heard of a cocks night in a lobster hut, huh?”

Castiel rubs at his temples. Garth, from admin, had said his bachelor party would be a small get-together, a few friends, a few work friends. Castiel was unaware until a few weeks ago, that he fell into either category. It would be rude to decline still, Castiel had been promised it would be simple; some good food, a few drinks, and at most perhaps one shot on the admins last night as 'a single pringle y’all!' 

Castiel having only really prepared himself for a light buzz, would most likely be the one to drive Garth home at the end of the night to his loving fiancee (he knew his other coworkers well enough). 

Hendrickson’s suggestion of more was...unnerving.

Any sort of party scene was not to Castiel’s tastes, had no been since at least ten years prior, when responsibilities had been lighter, Castiel’s metabolism quicker. His whims a little freer and not so entirely knotted up in a man who probably, didn’t even feel the same way— was not the least bit concerned about being absent for a week unless—

Unless something had happened to Dean. Something had happened to him out on the street, he was hurt, someone had _hurt_ him or he had, fallen in some guttering, or been mugged, or attacked or—

No, Castiel was just, just overreacting.

Maybe...a night away from everything would be good or him.

Donna sniffs, “Well I—”

The knock on the door jab of the breakroom is light, but captures all three officers attention quickly, Mx Johnson’s assistant stands there, Alife or Andy Castiel has trouble telling the two younger men apart. It is the one who doesn’t hold the camera, the shorter one, who has the air of someone busted in college for possession at one point, though Castiel’s not here to judge.

The young man looks about as tired as Castiel feels. His eyes droop almost as much as his shoulders hunch.

“Uh, hello,” Andy/Alfie says,  “Hi, sorry, just—” he goes to step inward, holding up an empty water bottle but Hendrickson moves with all his training behind him. He’s up and out of his seat before Andy/Alfie can put his foot back down.

“Nope.” Hendrickson says deeply.

Andy/Alfie starts, catching himself on the door jab. “Uh?”

Hendrickson spreads his arms. His voice a commanding hum. “Nu-uh. It was agreed, none of that tv shit, in here,” he physically blocks Andy/Alfie with his body. “This is our safe space.”  
  
Donna snorts form the table. She gets up. “Oh, grow up Vic.” her kind tone and face is enough to have Hendrickson sniff, step back from the door. Now up, she rounds him, and smiles to Andy/Alfie with rosey cheeks.

“It’s fine honey. Just wanting to fill those?”  
  
Andy/Alfie’s eyes are fixed on Hendrickson, expression unsure. “I—”

If the intern, assistant (whichever) is here, it means Hannah must be also.

Castiel sets down his mug. “Where is Mx Johnson?”  
  
It takes Andy/Alfie a moment to answer, his eyes perma-wide. “Hannah?” His eyes dart between the three officers. “They were talking with Jody about tonight’s patrol and setting with the gear?”

Donna ushers him inside, Andy/Alfie bolts for the sink at the same time as Castiel exits. He can hear Hendrickson swear behind him.

“Fucking—”

It may seem obvious but Castiel never really planned on being a police officer. He’d been in and out of school for most of his childhood, the result of a being the youngest of seven to a complacent mother and an absent father. It was only after having several brushes himself with the law himself that Castiel really started to take his schooling seriously, only graduating high school by the skin of his teeth.

For as long as he could remember, Castiel had wanted to be a gardener.

And he had done so for a while there, a meagre eager living for a meagre man. Until an elder brother (Michael) pitied him (coerced him) and offered him a job in administration, at his precinct (as his lacky). This had been fourteen years ago. Castiel's path from behind a desk to behind the wheel of a patrol car, in one of the most busiest precincts in the US was mostly a story of being strong armed and directed by others.

Castiel is more complacent than he seems. Even now while he’s not unhappy— he’s also not _happy._

He is comfortable. Familiar with the grooves and heaves of his own life. He enjoys his work, he does (he does), there's pride in upholding the law, he is very good at it, just...

This is not how he always envisioned things for himself. Besides, work was still work, not everyone loved their job all the time (even if it was their ream career, they couldn't).

Dissatisfaction was normal. It was...normal.

Dean doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would ever be caught dead following a path someone else had set for him. Dean is driven, Dean can _go_ places.

When Castiel met Dean, he himself was sheltered, fresh on the Strip, his only experience having been in small counties under Michael’s jurisdiction. Working in Vegas had been temporary. A favour.

Coming to the Strip, working in the Clark County Jail has been a life changing experience, not only because he met Dean, but because Castiel had found something he truly feels makes a difference in peoples lives.

Gardening never would have done that for him.

He is an officer of the law, in the one place in the US that needs the most law and order. Castiel has authority. He has sworn to uphold truth and justice in this small patch of the world as best he can with a badge in one hand and a gun in the other.

He finds Hannah by reception with the other Alfie/Andy.

“Novak,” Hannah greets him cordially, only the slightest bit visually interested in Castiel’s fast approach. They’re concentrated on their work, on directing their cameraman. “Quiet evening.”

Castiel has to think they're disappointed by that.  
  
“I need—” the words start to escape Castiel before he truly has a grip on them, he stops himself. Swallows, regains control, and speaks between them, just the two of them though Alfie/Andy is looking over. “I need to discuss something with you.”  
  
Hannah’s blue eyes regard him cooly. “Of course.” They make no move to follow him.

Castiel hates the way his throat cracks a little when he clarifies; “in private?”

It’s not really a question, but it comes out at such. Hannah's eyes lighten, they nod tightly, instruct their cameraman to finish setup then follow Castiel down the hall.

Castiel’s polished shoes are quiet on the linoleum.

He takes a deep breath. “Have you had any contact with him?” He asks, sure that within earshot it is just the two of them. “Dean?”

Hannah looks confused. “Officer—”

“Dean. Dean winchester?”

Hannah’s lips purse. “I know who Dean is.”  
  
Castiel falls back a bit, hands finding their way into his pockets. “Yes. Well.” He clears his throat. “Last week, I—I noticed the two of you speaking at length, Dean hasn’t—” every verbal inflection, every flinch, every flicker of pain was magnified tenfold under Hannah’s blue eyed, heavy browed stare. Castiel carefully composes himself. “I haven’t seen him since.”  
  
“That’s irregular?”  
  
“It’s…” concerning, Castiel wants to say but no, he should _want_ Dean off the streets. Want him to not be brought in. Every thought along these lines is a flicked match.

No matter how much Castiel knows this, how much this whole thing is tangled inside of him, he doesn’t truly feel relief with Dean gone, like he should.

He feels lonely. Worried.

Both are bad for his stomach.

Hannah, deftly perceptive it seems, says: “I thought it would be a positive outcome, to not have continuous violations—”  
  
“But this is Dean.” Castiel’s voice cracks from its usual gruff timbre. He turns from Hannah, petulant, as though a child. “This is different.”  
  
In turn Hannah speaks to him as if he actually were. “Officer, with all due respect. All I did is ask after Dean’s lived experience. I asked about his work.”  
  
“Prostitution.” Castiel cuts in. Hannah levels him with an even stare.

“Yes,’ they confirm. “I asked, we spoke, it was enlightening and I suggest that next time you see him, as I suspect you will see him here eventually, you should ask him about it.”  
  
It takes a lot for Castiel to not actively recoil. “Pardon?”

Hannah goes on as though he hasn’t spoken. “When you do, ask him to give me a call.” And then there in their hand extended out to him, is a business card. Simple in design and information, the kind of card Castiel would own— if he ever had inclination or need.

Hannah offers it as a salesperson would, the kind of person on his days off Castiel wouldn’t even answer the door for even though he's sitting two feet away on the couch. Yet he takes it.

“There’s something I want to pick his brain about.” Hannah says as they walk away, a small whoosh and a sweet smell.

“Novak!”

Castiel jolts. Hendrickson stands at the end of the hall. “Haul ass, got a code five coming in.” He doesn’t wait around for Castiel to follow.

Tucking Hannah’s card into the breast pocket of his uniform, Castiel jogs over, wondering if you can be so wound tight inside of yourself that you can feel it in your fillings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy tenth anniversary Dean and Cas, you fucken queers


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean takes Sam out to make up for missing his flight. Meanwhile Castiel is out with his colleagues, though his mind is miles away. Until it isn't.

**DEAN**

 

“I’ll make it up to you.” Dean says, pushing open the door of the Commonwealth bar. A refreshing break from all the see-and-be-seen glitz of The Strip.

Sam, shouldering a satchel he just refused to get rid of on the way here, comes in behind him. “Dean, I said it’s fine.”

Yeah, he had, and he had said the same the last three times Dean had brought it up, but— there’s a part of Dean, the maternal, caring part of him that has been kicking himself since John’s call this morning. How could he forget _Sam_. Sammy, of all people? Especially since they've been working so hard to get back to this point?

Dean thinks about sending Tessa a message congratulating her for doing the impossible, distracting him from his family, but overrides that quickly. He lives in the constant process of navigating boundaries. Sex, though intimate, was not _intimacy_. Dean has spent the better part of almost six years sorting that out in his head, sometimes he still needs to stop and remind himself.

Sam’s hair’s grown longer since the last time Dean saw him, before his school started for the year and Dean took some time off to catch Sam and his girlfriend Eileen in Lawrence. It’s almost past the broad slope of his shoulders now and, while navigating to a free table, Dean contemplates reaching across the bar and grabbing the lime knife. Giving the rat tails a nice clean _chop_.

The Commonwealth’s a nice diversion from the cocktail heavy drinking scene in Vegas. Dean shuttles Sam off to a booth near the balcony while offering to get the drinks himself. Sam relents, because he may say he’s fine but mostly Dean knows that’s for his own benefit. They're still trying to work things out between them.

His little brother’s always been weirdly attuned to Dean’s paternal guilt complex, knowing when to give a little, take a little. Piloting the waves of his brother with more surety than most other people in Dean’s life. They’re brothers, close in all the ways that matter. Including being along the West Coast. Though Dean has to admit that particular move of the both of them from Lawrence Kansas, was a happy accident.

Sam’s got his phone out and a smile on his face when Dean returns to their table with a jug. His grin’s dopey enough that Dean knows he’s talking to Eileen.

“Missus, alright?” Dean asks, pouring glasses out for the both of them.

Sam rolls his eyes though he’s still smiling. “All good. Yeah. She’s working on a paper right now with her old professor for the one-oh-one class.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean asks, taking a long laborious slip. He leans back heavily in his seat, eyes swivelling a bit across the bar while Sam goes on. It’s Monday, the bar isn’t empty (this is Vegas after all) but it isn’t packed to the extent where shoulders and elbows brush, where hips bump tables and slosh beer onto already sticky surfaces. Dean eases back a bit, cracking his neck one way—eyes to the bar, slipping shut opening—cracking his neck to the right, eyes slipping to—

He jerks, jolting the table so hard beer sloshes out of his glass, splashing his jeans. Sam yelps, very manly standing up from his seat. “Jesus, Dean!”

“Fuck.” Dean feels himself slipping, beer soaking into his thighs. He ducks down low in his seat and swears quite a bit more. “Shit shit fuck.”

“What?” Sam swivels around, trying to follow Dean’s darting eye line. “What?”

Dean straightens up, but keeps his eyes lowered to the sticky table top. He reaches for a napkin. “Some people I know from work.”

Sam’s eyes blow wide. “What!” He recoils, from the air that’s literally all around him, blushing red.

“Jesus Sam, not in _that_ way.” Dean barks, then with another quick dart around, lowers his voice. “It’s a freaking County Cop Convention over there.”

Sam’s concern keeps to its high level. “Dean!”

It’s Officer Handscum that Dean spotted first. Beside her Nancy, one of the nurses from the county, then Hendrickson, then Fitzgerald. Shit. Jesus—shit. Dean’s gotta say that in the last six years this hasn’t really been an issue for him. Catching cops, specifically cops he knows outside of well, the world of cops as it were, has never really happened. Vegas is not a small place and he hasn’t really concerned himself with the possibility of it happening in the first place. He…doesn’t know how to react.

Freaking out is probably not the right reaction. But still Dean finds himself ducking low behind Sam’s gigantic frame. Thankful, for once, for having a behemoth of a younger brother.

“Y’know what,” Dean says, reaching down and sculling what remains of his drink. “Let’s head. I’m gonna deal with—” he gestures to his beer soaked crotch in a way that has the corner of Sam’s lips kicking up. “Let’s head. There’s a good burger joint down a bit. We can get something to eat.”

Sam nods, and works on finishing his own beer. Waving Dean away.

The Cop Convention is across the other side of the bar, away from the bathroom, which Dean makes for now, carefully keeping his face turned from the familiar crowd, but keeping his eye on them, making sure that no one turns his—

Shit.

Dean realises Cas is in front of him a second before the other man runs into him.

Dark unruly hair, blue eyes, and a—a blue shirt.

“I’m sorry.” That gravelly rumble is enough to have Dean crumbling. There’s a moment where Cas doesn’t recognise him, but then he looks up, and the light of recognition enters his expression.

“Dean?”

“Uniform?” Dean replies, and immediately wishes a whole ocean of beer would drown him right then.

Cas’ expression crinkles at the corners, deepening the squint lines around his eyes Dean's sure are from reading in low light.

“Yes…” he replies, slow and uncertain. “What about it?”

The shock, and the sight of Cas so… casual—a simple pressed blue button down, soft slacks, sleeves rolled up to his biceps, tight across muscle, has Dean stuttering out: “Gone?”

It takes a moment, a moment Dean likes to think, of mirrored shock at seeing  _him_ outside of _his_ usual environment, for Cas’ mouth, his chapped bowed lips, to twitch, curve. A smile.

“Please tell me Dean that you understand officers have lives outside of their work.” Cas says, though his hands come up to smooth down the front of his shirt self-consciously.

“I—what.” Dean struggles. “Yeah, I _know_ , I just didn’t realise you—”

“If you want to be technical.” Cas interrupts, looking down at himself. “I’m still wearing my shoes.”

Dean looks down, and the little tap Cas makes with his boots, so outta sorts with everything else, shocks a little laugh outta Dean and brings him back to himself.

Without the weight of his badge and his uniform Cas’ answering smile to Dean’s laugh, seems lighter somehow.

It’s like Dean’s looking at a different person, that’s what’s so striking in that moment. Sure Cas looks a little different, different clothes, different context, the lower light cutting sharply across his features, highlighting his jaw, but mostly Cas seems different because of a sudden weightlessness Dean feels right to the tips of his fingers.

It’s funny, but outside of the jail and his job, Cas looks suddenly free.

Dean’s laughing more than the sly joke probably requires but, he would laugh until he suffocated if it would just keep Cas looking at him with that lovely lightness.

“Didn’t realise Commonwealth was hosting a cop convention tonight.” Dean says, regaining some of his footing by casting an eye to the cops in the corner, laughing around several drinks, also so…normal.

Cas turns his head towards his companions. A slight flush, the lighting or the alcohol or something else entirely crawls over his’ features.

And Dean hates himself a little, because somehow, his joke has returned a weight to Cas’ shoulders. Shoulders Cas rolls back now.

“Garth—Officer Fitzgerald, this is his, Bachelor party.”

“Really? Congrats.” Dean says and means it. He looks around them. “Here though?” The somewhat homey dive doesn’t exactly scream bachelor party, but then again, Cas and a bunch of other cops doesn’t exactly scream Bachelor party either.

Cas shrugs. “It’s what he wants,” he says. “It’s not so bad, rather nice actually, I was at first fearing something more like a, den of iniquity.”

Dean can’t help but smile. “ _Den of iniquity_?”

“You can’t tell me that you’re unfamiliar.” Cas says, though the instant the words are out of his mouth, it’s as if all of the sound is sucked out of the room. And at that moment, for no reason he can put into words, Dean feels a prick, somewhere behind his ribcage. He grimaces.

Cas pales considerably, so much it’s noticeable in the light. His eyes are wide on Dean. He makes an aborted step forward. Hand coming up to his face, touching the sharp angle of his nose, running up into his hair. “D-Dean, I’m so—”

“Forget it. Bad joke.” Dean laughs. And that's how he does it. Life. Laughing at the dark parts. You go on. God, what does he normally do with his arms, does he always hold them like this? “Look this is—”

“—Awkward.” Cas says, his voice growing bashful. His eyes are so blue, his shirt is so blue, pale blue.

“Yeah.” Dean relents. “We just, how about we just start again?” He says this as he offers out his hand.

Cas takes it. Palm warm and a little clammy in Dean’s own. The idea of unflappable, professional Cas being nervous makes the corner of Dean’s mouth kick up.

“Hey. I’m Dean Winchester, I’m an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach and frisky lovers.”

Cas splutters, hand falling slack, letting Dean go. “You can’t be serious.”

“What? I was born in Jan—”

Cas pulls back, shaking his head. “You can’t expect me to believe you introduce yourself to strangers like that.”

Dean smiles. “Do and will continue to do so, well into the future.”

Cas has got that sharp cop’s eye on him. Determined to keep Dean on the straight and narrow, free of sin, free of joy which while not explicitly sin within itself, was close enough so that a cop like Cas can be a stick in the mud about it.  

“Shut up you don’t know my style.”

“No,” Cas says, his soft smile amused, “I suppose I don’t.”

Dean lowers his gaze right as Cas lifts his own. Their eyes meet. Dean looks right at Cas, and sees a man who is great and good and a little sweaty, dishevelled and hopelessly human. Cas’ mind a world of his own, a world Dean wants to know.

This is it.

“Hey—”

He can do it.

“Mmm?”

Dean can bridge this gap.

“Wanna sit and have a drink?” He finds himself asking, extending a hand back to Sam and his table. “With us?”

Cas follows with his eyes. “Us?” His face puckers. It’s adorable.

“Sammy’s down. My brother? I’ve mentioned him a few times, y’know, I think, I...” Dean stalls, suddenly bashful himself. The request is so vulnerable in its earnestness. Like the uncovering of too many nerve endings, his whole body stings with exposure. “It’s…that’s awkward isn’t it? No, forget it, you have your party—”

He’s stopped from turning away by the warm weight of Cas’ hand on his shoulder. It’s enough, only a moment or so of contact, but enough to stall him. To keep him there. Keep him with Cas.

Cas’ hand is as soft as his voice when he speaks. “I would like to meet him.” He says, just as his fingers slip from Dean’s sleeve, catching a little on the end there.

Cas shifts his weight. “Since we’re starting anew. It’s not weird.” Cas makes a face, as though he’s trying to convince himself as much as Dean, but he shakes it off. “Just don’t think about it.”

“Just don’t think about it,: Dean repeats, nodding. “Well that’s sound advice.”

Cas’ laugh is softer than before, but it tempers Dean’s slight unease like cooling water against a burn. His own smile light. Then, there’s a cackle coming from the corner, raucous and high.

Cas turns to look where Dean is looking, which shows Hendrickson cackling, slapping a spluttering Garth on the back while Handscum triumphant, sets down the jug she was chugging from. Victorious, Donna whoops, Cas, watching the display, winces.

“They’re all on shift tomorrow,” he says.

Dean’s laugh is almost as loud as Donna’s cheers.

 

 

**CASTIEL**

 

Dean Winchester.

Castiel can truthfully say that he hadn’t expected to run into Dean tonight.

What he had been doing was trying not to think about Dean, with his legs stretched out under the table, an inebriated Donna on one side, Victor on the other. He’d been scrolling through Facebook on his phone, the site telling him things he doesn’t need to know and aggressively worded opinions from people he hasn’t spoken to in years. He’d only gotten up when Donna nudged (rather hard actually) her elbow into his side, and called him a “party-pooping spoilsport” loud enough that Hendrickson thought to save him by suggesting Castiel grab the next round.

First, Castiel went to the bathroom. It was on his way toward the bar where he ran into Dean.

Dean Winchester.

Following Dean back to his own table, Castiel throws a look over his shoulder to see his colleagues have managed to procure their own drinks. Good, he won’t possibly be missed, and their attention seems to be fixed to the soon-to-be-groom himself, so Castiel feels his brief interlude with Dean will go easily missed.

He does not enjoy the twisting in his gut that comes with the idea of being seen by his colleagues with Dean. But it is not enough to wholly deter him. Castiel returns his attention to the man in front of him, and that feeling of apprehension, the fear of being caught dulls to a faint pulse under his skin.

For Dean Winchester is a sun. All other things his moons.

It’s almost funny, really.

When Castiel first met Dean years ago now, the other man had been barely wearing anything at all. He’d had the kind of outfit that arose chaos within anyone who saw it (Castiel especially, even though he now knew it had been a _costume_ ). Castiel has seen Dean in an all manner of situations, and outfits. He has seen Dean with his head flopped back against a stiff plastic seat, handcuffed, snoring, a tray of long hardened mash potato sitting on his lap. Castiel knows Dean, in ways that most civilians never come to know even their closest friends.

But somehow here, tonight, now, like this. A soft seeming shirt, flannel and jeans. This Dean is taking his breath away.

So, to say that Castiel is nervous about meeting the one person in Dean’s life, Castiel has ever been privileged enough to hear by name, is an understatement.

He follows Dean back to his table, acutely aware of his own body. Aware of its movements, its apparent stiffness. Do his arms always swing this way? Does he walk heel toe first or toe heel? Christ. Castiel’s boarding on nausea now, which in-and-of-itself is being _dwarfed_ by insecurity.

It only gets worse when Castiel is close enough to actually _see_ Sam Winchester.

He is young and glorious and glowing. He gets up from his seat at their approach, his smile taking up most of his expression. “Hey. Uh, what happened to getting burgers?”

The world truly is a terrible place for anyone who hasn’t laid eyes upon a Winchester.

"Grab'em later." Dean says then introduces them. “Sammy, Cas. Cas, Sammy.” He slides into the seat first against the wall, Sam sliding back in next to him. Castiel takes the other side of the booth for himself.

He feels somewhat self-conscious under Sam’s suddenly piercing gaze.

“Cas, as in Castiel?” Sam turns to Dean, some silent communication shifting between them a moment before he turns back to Castiel, extending one— very large—hand.  “Hi, hello. It’s nice to meet you.”

Castiel blinks. He was preparing on their walk over here his own welcome and introduction but what comes out instead is almost accusatory. “You know me?”

He turns to Dean for questioning only to find Dean climbing up and over the back of the bar seat like a child, in an effort to escape around his brother.

“Changed my mind.” Dean says. Moving with a surprising amount of athleticism. His voice remaining even. “I definitely need another drink for this.”

He hops, landing on the floor almost artfully, asks; “want anything, Cas?”

Castiel is still quite taken with the random display of flexibility.

"Cas?"

“Uh, yes, water. Please.” He manages, casting a quick eye to his colleagues.

Dean’s nails are painted the faintest of pink. He uses one to pick at his teeth. “Sure, be a sec.”

“Get a jug,” Sam requests. “ _Cas,_ and I will share.”

Another moment of silent communication passes between the two young men. Castiel cannot determine a winner from the exchange but, almost reluctantly now, since his announcement moments before, Dean leaves for the bar. Sam Winchester leans heavily in his seat, smiling good naturedly.

He has a kind face. Like his brother.

Eventually, Castiel’s voice staggers from his mouth.

“Dean discusses me?’

“Not really.” Sam’s looking after Dean. He casts a glance to Castiel outta the corner of his eye. Shifts in his seat. “Well, I mean, he _has_ mentioned you once or twice.”

Rather downplayed from Sam’s initial reaction to him. Castiel decides to let the matter drop.

Silence approaches their table like an overeager waiter. Hovering around, making Castiel feel almost looked at.

He tilts his chin upwards, watches the dusky light bouncing off the bottles above the bar, the low hanging glass lights, chandelier like, more Vegas than the rest of the comforting almost homey décor.

“You having a good night?” Sam asks him.

Castiel answers honestly. “I am now.” Dean is at the bar now, beneath the coloured bottles from which Dean himself has stroked all the colour. “It’s good to see Dean, I admit I’ve been worried about him.”

Castiel turns back to see Sam’s smile, that felt moments ago as though it could wrap its way around anyone who saw it, falter. “Oh?”

Castiel pauses. Unsure of how much he _should_ , _can_ say.

Does Sam know of his brother’s occupation, no... illegal activity?

There must be something to Castiel’s expression because Sam’s concern eases. He rests his elbows on the table.

“I know Dean is a sex worker.” He says upfront, just like that. If Castiel had a drink, he might’ve spat it out. “Sorry. It’s just, you looked as though you were torn between dobbing him in, and exploding.”

“I--”

Sam smiles apologetically. “Can’t be an easy situation for you.”

Castiel blinks. “For _me?”_ he asks, and then. “Are you not attending _law school?”_

“I am.”

Sam’s answer is as equally pointed as Castiel’s question. A stalemate then. From across the table Sam considers him far more deeply than before. When he speaks, his works flicker like lit matches. Dropping delicately. Burning.

“Though if you’re looking for someone to condemn Dean’s life choices then, you’re going to have to look to a different little brother. As far as I’m concerned so long as he’s happy and healthy and stops getting arrested.” Sam’s eyes flick over Castiel’s shoulder. “Then I’m happy. Hey, Dean, you sure you’ve got enough?”

Castiel turns, and sees Dean coming toward them, carry two jugs precariously, one water, one beer, as well as a fifth of whiskey and an extra glass.

“Figured with you two I’d need something a little stronger.” Dean sets the jug of water and a glass before Castiel. “Here ya go Cas.”

“Thank you.” 

He falls artfully into the seat opposite Castiel when Sam moves out and then back in to return him to his original place beside the wall. Dean empties his arms, looks to Castiel then back to Sam. His brows furrow, gaze staying fixed on his brother.

Sam is pouring water into his beer glass when Dean asks: “Okay, what?”

Castiel, concerned, looks at the youngest Winchester. But he is far too much an outsider, unable to read anything of his features.

Sam lifts and sips his water. “What what?”

“You’ve got a look.”

“What look?”

“You’ve done something, Cas,” Dean turns to him, scrutinising Castiel from across the table. “What’s he done? What’s he said to you?”

“You’re paranoid.” Sam rolls his eyes.

“Paranoid like a fox.”

“Dean honestly. You were barely gone five minutes.”

“Yeah exactly. Five minutes.” Castiel is able to feel the weight of Dean’s eyes shift over his face, his lips, his throat. “That’s enough for you to mess something up. Get inside his head.”

“I assure you, Dean. It takes a little longer than five minutes for a man I’ve just met to get inside me.”  Castiel says, in what he hopes is a playful manner. “He at least has to buy me a drink first.”

All is quiet. Then--

Sam’s laughter is a loud, childish thing. Accompanied by a lean and a clap to the shoulder.

Dean’s laughter, quite simply, is music.

 

___________

 

Castiel listens to the Winchester brothers the way a cactus drinks in rain. He watches their dark heads bent together as they chat and laugh with each other. He is not entirely shut out in some malicious way, no of course not, but, it is apparent that Castiel is in the presence of two people with a close bond. Who love each other and apparently, missed each other’s company.

They don’t mean to discount Castiel when they do. This just isn’t about him.

He is in no real way made to feel _excluded_ from the small world created between the two of them, in fact Sam is particularly attentive to this, filling Castiel in on details that would otherwise go over his head. Explaining at length but not without joy, anecdotes and people when they’re brought up, _Bobby, Mum, Eileen, John._ He asks Castiel questions, engages and asks more questions in response.

It is a little intimidating, to have the weight of Sam Winchester's interest upon you, but no less intimidating than the fact that he is Dean’s brother, a close confidant. And with every answer, chuckle and pause, Castiel finds himself wanting to impress him.

Needless to say throughout the exchange Dean is Dean and within this; Castiel finds some deep seeded joy. Joy at knowing that the Dean he knows, and would like to know more of, is in fact the same Dean Sam Winchester knows, only in vastly different quantities.

It strikes Castiel as funny, somewhere around their second round, that this is the longest length of time he has ever spent with Dean outside of a jail house.

The truth is downright absurd sometimes.

Huddled together, a group of three as they are, Castiel only really comes to remember himself, as a part of Garth’s Bachelor party for one, and as a third party, something separate from both Winchesters entirely, once Sam leaves the table for another round.

“I’ll be back. Another jug alright?” When both Dean and Castiel answer yes, Sam disappears into the steadily bustling bar.

Dean turns from his brothers retreating form, gifting Castiel once more with a singularly dazzling smile. “Sorry, we don’t really get the time to catch up how we used to.” He sighs, some form of loss evident in his voice as he continues. “Sam’s got school and y’know, life, and shit, just gets in the way.”

“I understand.” Castiel intones.

“I haven’t told him about Hannah’s show at the County and everything.” Dean admits quietly. “Yet. I will. He’ll just worry about the whole TV and everything, so I don’t…”

It’s with his glass halfway to his mouth that Castiel remembers. Setting it down, he pulls out his wallet. “I have something for you.”

Dean’s concern melts away to something curious. “Is it a pony?”

Castiel feels his own frown. “Is that what you want?”

“Nah,” Dean shrugs. “Apartment’s too small for it.”

“Pleased to tell you then that it is not in fact, a pony.” Castiel says, and pulls Hannah’s card from his wallet, sliding it over the table.

Dean taps it with the tip of one finger. “What’s this?” His smile is the last sun in a supernova. “Your number?”

Castiel feels his cheeks heat, and is thankful for the general low lighting around them.

“Hannah’s actually,” he explains, and pockets the brief flickering of disappointment on Dean’s face for future perusal. “Hannah Johnson? They asked for me to pass it on to you, when I next saw you.”

Dean takes the slip from the table, pressing one corner of the card into his thumb as he looks it over. His eyes darkening with consideration.

“I believe they want to involve you in some film project,” says Castiel.

Dean’s eyes lift at this. “Project?”

Castiel shrugs. “I can’t imagine they’d want you for anything else.” He explains his own theory for Hannah’s interest, and relays most of their conversation (omitting some of the more obvious points) to Dean, who listens without comment until the end.

After, Dean’s lips purse. His eyes flit from each of Castiel's, to the card then back again.

“That’s not terribly professional,” he says. “Poaching talent on company time.”

“You’re hardly professional.”

Dean snorts. “I’m professional where and when it counts.” As he says this, he brings one leg up under himself, planting one booted foot on the seat beneath it, so he can rest his chin on his knee, and look across at Castiel, the card now held limp between two fingers.

“You were asking after me,” he says.

Castiel looks down at the sticky table. “I was…concerned, you had not been present for a while. The last I saw of you was you talking with them, and I—”

“You were worried about me.” Dean surmises. “Worried that I wasn’t out there getting arrested by you?”

Castiel flushes. It seems a bit pitiful and wholly ridiculous now to have it all thrown back at him, it’s…there’s a cornering feeling growing in his chest. One that makes him want to run, makes his pits sweat and his eyes stay glued to the sticky table top.

“What...What did you two talk about?” The voice, though sounding of Castiel and leaping from his own throat, is one hundred percent not him and must be some other, more jealous creature. “Yourself and Mx Johnson?”

“Work.” Dean answers simply, and all the steam building within Castiel evaporates with the casualness of his tone. Work, _Dean’s work_ , or Hannah’s work? They were talking about work and that was enough to…to have Dean change his ways so drastically? Castiel isn’t buying it, this isn’t the truth, the whole truth.

He sits in the lie, for Dean is quiet a long time, looking back at the card, sliding a thumb over its edge.

“They’re into documentary, real life and shit yeah?” he asks. It’s only after a moment Castiel realises Dean’s asking him.

He doesn’t get a chance to answer.

“Can’t help feel like this is some kinda entrapment.” Dean murmurs. This time lifting his eyes and settling them on Castiel, until the other man speaks.

“What?”

“There’d be only one reason Hannah, a person like them, has any interest in me.” Dean explains. “Now, I might be a bit reckless—”

Castiel huffs.

Dean goes on. “A _bit_ reckless. But, I don’t much like the idea of having my business plastered across the country on the poster of some Sundance Film fest thing.”

“I doubt it would be across the country.” Castiel says. Though really when it comes to amateur filmmaking, or multimedia in general, he knows very little.

Dean looks at him balefully. It’s a look that fades quick. His attention shifts to the middle distance. He scrapes at his pink nail polish with the hardened edge of the card.

“Still…” Whatever thought he’s having becomes inaudible. So that only Dean and Dean alone is aware of his motivations, his ideas, and his goal with taking one last look at that card, and then pulling out his phone.

Castiel isn’t aware he’s reaching across the table until the tips of his fingers brush the soft flannel of Dean’s shirt sleeve. A quick breath gets sucked in. Whether Dean’s or Castiel’s own, Castiel isn’t sure. Dean’s eyes jump up to his face at the same moment as Castiel remembers himself, sliding his hand the scantest of inches back so, he is still undeniably reaching out to Dean, but no longer touching him. Dean’s thumb hovers over his screen.

“What about entrapment?” Castiel asks.

“For now, it’s just a phone call.”

“I could go with you.”

“Having a cop go with me ain’t exactly alleviating the whole entrapment feeling, Cas.”

Castiel swallows, something sour on his tongue. “What about, a friend?” he asks. “Me. As a friend. We did, we did agree to-” Castiel licks his lips. Throat suddenly dry. "Start again?"

Dean’s green eyes blink twice before he says anything. He leans back in his seat a little, enough that Castiel’s lean across to him seems… Castiel straightens, at once furious with himself and beyond humiliated. He has stepped too far across some invisible line. To presumptuous, unseeing to Dean’s discom—

But then Dean smiles. Hannah’s card and his phone are gone, pocketed it seems. Now, Dean tugs his shirt sleeve between two fingers. Fingertips rubbing the same expanse of flannel that Castiel had brushed mere moments before.

He says nothing right away. Allowing the seconds to tick by, just…watching Castiel. Castiel can hear himself breathing, in his ears over the general din of the bar. His hands are clammy, he shifts to sit down on top of them. Dean for his own part, takes his chin off his knee, dropping his foot back to the floor. A load bearing leg, he leans over the table.

“Y’know, friends usually have each other’s numbers.”

It’s said softly. Castiel like to think, a soft and intimate request, as soft and intimate as the feeling it ignites in him. The weight on his chest, he wasn’t even aware of himself having until right this moment, lifts away a little, some unseen strain lessening.

Then Sam returns.

“Smooth Dean.” Sam Winchester mocks sliding into the booth, having to nudge his brother with his shoulder. “This how you pick up all your dates?”

The weight is an anvil, crushing Castiel beneath it.

Dean squawks, and swats at his brother, encroaching on his space. “Jesus, Sam!” he says this and pushes Sam but he’s laughing. Laughing even more still when Sam half slides half stumbles back into his seat, sloshing his beer on the table.

“You’re drunk Sammy!” Dean laughs, the accusation not serious, childish in his swats and wriggling. Kicking even.

“Damnit it, Dean! Quit it!”

“You’re the one taking up too...much… _space!”_

“Oh my god. You are the _worst_.” Sam finally wins back his seat. Onto the table he rests some pinkish fruity drink, and another beer jug. He places the jug between all three of them, then shuffles the cocktail Dean’s way.

“Here.”

“What is it?”

“Singapore Sling apparently. Bartender recommended it.”

“For who? Friggen Tinkabell?” Even though he says this, Dean takes a sip. “Good colour, _way_ too sweet.”

“I know I am, thank you.” Sam smirks, and gets hit in the shoulder for his trouble. He tries the drink himself and seems satisfied, for he sips from it instead of the jug he brought.

Dean pours them all drinks, and in that interesting way now that Sam’s here, his attention is tuned back to his little brother. Almost fully. Dean plucks his phone from his pocket, taps it so the lock screen lights up.

“1967,” he says, what Castiel realises rather quickly his passcode.

Sam is speaking at length about his schooling while Castiel, with remarkable timidity and somewhat shaking fingers, enters his own number into Dean’s phone, and deliberates for far longer than intended on how to list his contact. C Novak, Castiel Novak, Novak, Officer—

God no.

The choice is rather taken out of his hand when Dean pulls the phone from his fingers. Not a word, nothing more than a sideways glance and a smile, before he’s quipping back at his brother, slipping his phone, and Castiel’s number deftly into his pocket.

 

___________

 

**1:46 AM**

> **Unknown Number** SENT

        Wanna come with me? Sun 18th 10:00AM Three Locals Café

**1:47 AM**

> **Unknown Number** SENT

        This is Dean by the way

 

 _Unknown Number_ changed to _Dean Winchester_

 

**1:52 AM**

< **You SENT**

        I’ll meet you there

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was going to be a lot shorter (and therefore uploaded quicker) but these boys just kept wanting to talk to one another XD Wouldn't shut up, so sorry about that!
> 
> I'mma be busy with NanoWriMo next month so don't expect a new update before December but I hope you enjoy this long-ish chapter!
> 
> Also does it bother you that for a Destiel story with sex worker!Dean and so much talk about sex and stuff that there's been no sex in it at all? I hope not *awkward face*
> 
> Let me know if you enjoy this! Comments and Kudos feed the monsters


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie is not getting paid enough for this shit

Alfie didn’t expect that his first shot at filming TV, filming _Jail Las Vegas_ would lead him here. The Three Locals Café, a surprisingly quaint place for Vegas, off the Strip.

Alfie never expected to find himself on, what was pretty much his only, day off in two weeks, sitting in a four-person booth off to one corner. The scent of freshly baked pastries, and brewed coffee the only things reanimating Alfie this early on a Sunday morning.

Hannah sits beside him, as primly and properly dressed as ever, but their dark shoulder length hair is pulled up into a small bun, giving their profile and nose a sharper alignment. Dean Winchester sits opposite them, half crouched in his seat in a pair of soft looking pink sweat pants, one sturdily booted foot on the seat beneath him, allowing him to rest his chin on his knee, as he reads through the papers Hannah slid across the table in one hand. In his other he holds a breakfast burger that is more bacon grease and runny egg yolk than anything even remotely solid.  
  
He is a messy eater, a messy man taking too big bite-fulls, barely looking at his meal in one hand, while holding important contracts in the other. Oblivious to the obscenity of it, or more likely, enjoying it on some level. Disgusting, and if he's not careful he's going to get sticky fat all over Hannah's documents.

Officer Castiel Novak’s eyes are on the documents as well. He sits beside Dean in a pressed shirt and slacks, absently stirring at the coffee in front of him that he has yet to take a sip from.

Officer Novak and Dean Winchester, the very definition of an odd couple. Though they arrived almost together, Dean standing outside the Three Local’s upon arrival until Novak came, they walked in together, shoulders bumping.

When Hannah proposed they meet here, neutral territory, something trite like that, Alfie hadn’t of known that Officer Novak would be joining them.

He’s currently reading over Dean’s shoulder whilst trying to appear as though he isn’t. An endeavour made all the harder, Alfie reckons, because Novak’s bottle-glass blue eyes are like spotlights, impossible to ignore.

Over the weeks turned months Alfie has been up close with the one the girls on the Strip call ‘Blue Eyes’, a name Dean himself has indulged in, though Alfie suspects mostly to tease their owner. For the first time really, in the light of day and out from under flickering fluorescence, Alfie finally gets the moniker for himself.

Novak’s eyes are very blue. His jaw _incredibly_ chiselled.

It’s strange, having seen Novak buttoned up in his uniform, intense and severe focused entirely on the job, now seeing him semi-formal (but probably casual by his own standards, Alfie thinks) stirring cream and sugar into his cup. It’s strange seeing him in normal clothing. Dean too.

Alfie’s eyes flick over to the other man. It’s strange because Alfie has become so used to seeing the green-eyed man with cuffs about his wrists and a belly chain. Yet here, he’s casually dressed, _normal_. Bright eyed and…well not bushy tailed but with his usual charm amped up to eleven.

“There’s nothing incredibly formal.” Hannah is explaining the contract they handed over to Dean from behind the rim of their teacup. As though they are not deeply invested in Dean's approval and acceptance. “And whatever is in there is completely up for negotiation.”

Dean hums, eyes scanning through a few more pages. He takes a sloppy bite from his burger. Speaking once the bite is swallowed (but only just).

“How are you envisioning this thing? Exactly?” he asks as he sets the papers on the table between them. He shifts in his seat till he is sitting properly (like an _adult_ Alfie’s mum would sniff, but then again, she would never approve of Dean in the first place).

Not that Alfie is imagining introducing _Dean Winchester_ to his mother.

He’s not.

He’s just...admiring Dean, who is a very attractive man in his own right, bacon grease and all, from afar. From across the table. Far enough really, if he wanted to he could make their feet touch under the table, play footsie with those heavy looking boots and comfy sweats. Wait...no...

Alfie wouldn’t even _consider_ being with Dean Winchester. In any capacity. Dean Winchester has...has _sex_ with people for _a living_ , he has been to _jail._

Dean takes another slurpy bite of his burger and licks the trail of grease down his wrist before it gets too far. His long pink tongue lapping up, up, blue veins into his palm, up one finger. Two.

Gosh though, Alfie can’t help but think while the display, he has simply  _lovely_ wrists when they aren’t marred by cuffs.

Alfie’s skin burns when spotlights rest upon him. Novak. Alfie startles, throwing his eyes away from Dean, to the walls to the floor to, anything really, as he reminds himself of Novak’s position, his position within the _police_ , shit.

Officer Novak’s attention has now lifted from Dean’s page and settled on him. One brow slightly raised, as though he can pick apart Alfie's private thoughts with those piercing, gem-flat, deep, blue or—

Alfie slams his attention down to the table top. The boring, decidedly unattractive table top. He senses more than sees, Dean wave a hand.

“You director-y types always gotta go into these things with a narrative angle or something, yeah?” Dean asks Hannah. "So what's the angle?"

“Honestly, at this point I’m more interested in what you would like to share with us. With everyone.” Hannah explains much in the same unrestrictive way they informed Alfie of their intention before coming here. Not exactly a solid plan but, Hannah is an artist in their own right. Alfie trusts their vision, even if he can’t see it.

Hannah goes on. “What is it you do day to day. Your experience. You said that I know very little of your work, and that’s true,” their eyes dart to Novak then. A quick glance, then away. “And whatever you share with us will be in the strictest confidence. Nothing will be produced or shared without your input in the finished product.”

As far as filming goes it’s a better deal for a documentary subject than most. Generous even, Alfie thinks maybe a little _too_ generous, but he decides to sit on his hands.

Though Hannah’s side eye to Novak was quick it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Cas is good.” Dean says, and if possible, shifts in his seat a little. Enough that, Alfie notices, it brings his side up against Novak’s. Though Hannah seems to take Dean’s assurance on the matter as enough, Alfie, conscious of the way Castiel says nothing to this feels doubtful.

Novak always moved about the jailhouse as though he had a steel rod down the back of his shirt. He sits much the same way now, with the same moue and same perpetual bags beneath his eyes. Professionalism, Alfie suspected in that first week of meeting him all those months ago, and Novak seemed to go hand in hand. It seemed as though that professionalism was a core part of Novak’s personality.

He can’t help but feel that if that was true then, why would Novak be here in the first place?

Dean takes another sloppy bite from his burger. “I ain’t seen nothing about it yet,” he says after swallowing. He looks up from the page he’s reading and toward Hannah. “But I’m bringing it up now. You ain’t gonna get any interviews with my clients.”

Hannah visibly deflates. “Oh.”

“It’s my job to help people relax, feel comfortable. They trust me.” Dean explains. His even and commanding tone almost completely at odds with the way he _devours_ his burger like a small child. He licks grease from his fingers, then wipes them on a napkin before continuing. “This is a whole lot of something none of them asked for.”

“Could you ask?”

Dean narrows his gaze. Sets his burger down.  
  
Alfie suspects Hannah was meant to ask that, but their abrupt tone comes across almost demanding. Subtle, under the table Alfie nudges Hannah with his knee, shooting them a look when they turn to meet his eye.

“I understand what you do is sensitive.” Hannah tries again with more tact. “And of course I will honour your request, but if perhaps any of them were to become interested?”

“They wouldn’t be,” Dean says quickly, but almost as soon as he’s said it he tilts his head. “Actually. I might know one,” but he lifts his mug, taking two full mouthfuls, pink lips over the rim, looking over at Hannah much the same. “I won’t ask, but I’ll mention what we’re doing, and if they’re interested down the track or something then.” He shrugs. Goes back to the last few bites of his burger.

Alfie suddenly envies Dean for being the only one out of the four of them to order food.

“That would be all we’d want.” Hannah enthuses and looks to Alfie as though, he is a part of this ‘we’.

Well, Alfie guesses he is now. His first real film project out of shitty ads and reality TV, is following around a prostitute—sorry, sex worker, for the next ten weeks.

“Could get you some time at the club though. I’ve got a show in a couple of weeks, I’ll be training between now and then.” Dean says.

Hannah is at their most interested yet. Leaning across the table. “That would be great to see.”

Alfie doesn’t know what they’re talking about. “Your shows?”

“Burlesque.” Dean answers. “You’d love it,” he winks, and in an instant Alfie feels the whole of him fill up with a light. “I’m alright, I mean, there’s some others who dance at Ellen’s and—shit man, They’re great. Really. Total superstars.”

Burlesque. Alfie once again throws his eyes to the table. He…he’s never been to a show, but he knows what burlesque is. At least from movies and…other films, he has an idea. Women scantily clad. Feathers. Seductive dancing. Dean, in place of some busty woman, delicate lace pressed to the curves of his—

Shit, Alfie's been working too much.

“Sounds perfect!” Hannah says, and Alfie has to agree, albeit privately.

“I just want to see your everyday, what you do, how you do it. What is it really like, in an age of sexual and gender reawakening and revolution to do what you do? What changes are we going to have to make to improve circumstances for sex workers who are often vulnerable and unfairly targeted by the law?”

Novak clears his throat and Hannah stumbles over their next words. Dean, Alfie catches, smirks with an attractive lit to his mouth. Almost affectionate.

Hannah rights themself. “What is positive about sex work when it is a person’s own choice. What is liberating, what needs government attention and support. We have The Dreamcatcher Foundation, SWOP USA. So many filmmakers cover the dark and ugly side of sex work, human trafficking. But there has to be something between that is just as real and valid. There must be something between tragedy and…the fantasy of, say, Pretty Woman.”

Novak chokes on his coffee. Quiet as the grev one moment, spluttering and coughing the next, shaking the whole table with him too, some coffee splashing out of his full mug.

Dean reaches over and slaps him on the back, Novak gasps and Dean lets him go, amusement lighting up his face.

Hannah, concerned, grabs a napkin from the dispenser and offers it across the table. “You alright?”  
  
Novak takes the offered napkin, spluttering a tight and embarrassed (which Alfie finds oddly endearing) “Apologies.”

Dean leaves Novak to collect himself, space between them once more. He finishes off his burger.

“Alright.” He says to Hannah. “I’m in. You mind if I take these with me though,” he holds up the papers, “get my brother to look over 'em, just make sure it’s all on the up and up?”

Hannah’s all smiles, practically vibrating in their seat. “Of course! Your brother is a contract lawyer?”

“Law student, Same diff right? Hell, he at least knows more than I do." Dean laughs self deprecatingly. "I mean, he got the brains in the family. I just got the looks.” he laughs again, perhaps more self-consciously.

“That’s false. You are intelligent, more then you give yourself credit for.”  
  
Alfie and Hannah both look to Novak. Dean, who had been at once carding a hand through his hear from the back of his neck, blinks and looks over to the buttoned-down man beside him.

There’s a moment there, where the two men just look at one another, a few stalled seconds of connection, seconds that make Alfie feel more like a voyeur than any cameras lens has ever made him. Then, slowly, the moment passes. Dean looks away.

“Sweet talker,” he says. “Don’t choke on them compliments now.”

Novak’s blue eyes narrow. It almost seems that he is about to snipe back. Say something as playful and _uncharacteristic_ Alfie feels, back but then there is a crack of thunder, too small and close to be real, and the sound of an electric guitar rips through the air.

Dean jerks, wrestling his phone from his pocket. Glancing at the screen he frowns and pulls yet  _another_ phone from his other sweats pocket. He gets up from the table, while thumbing it open with greasy fingers, he doesn’t answer, a text then, but pockets it again quickly. “Gotta go.”

Novak slumps back a little in his seat. “Oh.”

Hannah similarly looks disappointed.

 Dean shrugs. “Got a client.”

Alfie turns from Dean to look out the window. The sunny, bright outside. “On a Sunday morning?”

To have Dean Winchester’s full attention on you is to be subjected to something that vibrates. That ignites a kind of heartsickness, all at once, not really painful, or comfortable. It’s… fleeting, kinda perfect. There. Dean is terribly affecting. Alfie shifts in his seat when Dean, looking at him, smiles (as if he _knows_ ).

 “Today’s a day for worship after all ain’t it?” And though the answer startles a laugh out of Alfie, a smile out of Hannah. Novak doesn’t react, except to thumb around the rim of his mug.

As though bothered by the non-reaction, Dean focuses in on him, quirking one brow in turn with his lips. He collects his satchel from beneath the table. “C'mon, Cas, lighten up. You, uh, want a lift to the station or something?”

“I’ll be fine Dean, thank you.” Novak raises his untouched, undoubtedly cold by now, Coffee. “I have yet to finish my drink.”

Dean blinks, obviously not expecting the rejection. But he shrugs, shouldering his bag. “Suit Yourself, I’ll ah,” one glance to Hannah and Alfie across the table has him murmuring. “Text you. Ring you,” he says the last to Hannah, then turns to look at Alfie dumbly for a moment, before backing away. “And, uh, see you round, I guess?”

Alfie nods. “Someone’s gotta man the camera.”

“Cool. Man.”

Hannah rises from their seat to see Dean off. They step back from the table to have a last word with one another. Hannah shakes Dean’s hand as he leaves, and Dean heads out, one last backwards glance to their table before he’s gone.

Hannah slides back into their seat and, says: “You have concerns, Castiel.”

It’s not a question.

Novak’s attention flicks to Alfie momentarily before riding him from significance all together.

“What is your intention with this…’project’.”

Only Officer Novak can sound intimidating while using finger quotes.

Hannah is quiet for a moment. Considering their answer. When they answer it’s calm, without flourish but emotive. They really feel this, Alfie realises, they really  “Honestly, Castiel stories that don’t fall into a black and white binary, they don’t make it onto screen. They don’t get heard by the press, make their way into public consciousness. Sex workers are vilified, murdered and raped. incarcerated unfairly.”

Novak’s careful expression twists with the last point. Alfie knows Hannah notices, but they make not signal they have.

“Dean is charismatic.” They finish. “People will be interested in what he has to say.”

“At the risk of his own safety.” Novak concludes.

“His choice.” Hannah replies simply. “I just want to report the reality I’m seeing here, Castiel. The truth. Dean’s, any subject’s safety to the full extent of my power is the bare minimum owed by any journalist.”

“You’re not a journalist.” Novak delivers deadpan.

Alfie sees how this strikes Hannah. They take a quick breath in, schooling their features into a careful blank. Hannah’s left hand tightens on their thigh beneath the table and Alfie--unsure as to anything really, as to why he does what he does and usually content to just drift through everything, be a silent observer from the side--gets up from his seat.

“No. They’re not.” the voice escaping Alfie’s mouth is not his own. It’s terse, argumentative, _forceful_ , and it’s directed at an _officer of the law._ The second’s realisation of all of this however, doesn’t deter him, in fact it makes his voice shake but his words ring truer for it. “But Hannah is a great filmmaker. A great director.”

Alfie turns to look at Hannah as he says this. Part of him hoping for them to step in. Yet when he sees their expression, the way those big blue cow-eye looks up at him (an icy blue to rival Novak’s own, Alfie admits privately to himself), he feels himself stirred.

“They just want to, to give Dean a platform,” he tells Novak. “To tell his story, to share his side of things and, if Dean is into it, if he wants to use the potential publicity for his own means, to highlight the issues rampant in his community.” Alfie makes an aborted move that he thought in his mind was to be something like a shrug, but came out far more trembling. “Who are you to stop him?”

Slow, Castiel just looks at him. It is a meeting of eyes Alfie isn’t quite fit to face after everything--God, his hands are shaking. He drops back down into his seat. Sits on his hands. Wow, everything is blurry. Novak’s gaze isn’t infused with the  undercurrent of warmth it was with Dean. This is calculating. Analytical. It makes Alfie feel small.

Hannah reaches out and touches his arm, he starts, flushes embarrassed before turning to look at them. He sees their lips move in a silent ‘thank you’. They squeeze his bicep and let him go.

“Castiel,” Hannah says, Novak’s attention is slow to shift. But it does. Alfie slumps. _Thank God._

“Castiel, I will do all in my power to protect him. I will not squander this opportunity to, to hurt Dean or place him in a position that could get him in more trouble than he can deal with. As you’re quite familiar.” Hannah smiles a little. “He is adept at handling the local authorities. He has something of a…way with officers.”

Novak’s expression remains stony, though his cheeks flush scarlet. He rises. “If it would be amendable, I would like to look over a copy of this contract.”

Alfie starts. “Those are for Dean’s—”

Hannah stops him, pulling from their bag a second set of papers. “I thought you would request as much when Dean told me you would be joining us,” they pass them over to Novak, who, if he’s surprised, doesn’t show it on his face.

Understanding dawns on Novak’s features, he raises one brow. “You spelt my name wrong.”  
  
“Sorry.” Hannah apologies, “we can correct that. I _have_ changed the wording in some sections. Feel free to sign it yourself.” they comment as Novak flicks through. “You could provide a valuable perspective.”

Novak stands there with his hip pressed against the table. Poised to leave, but staying to read. He’s almost statuesque, a little too rumpled to be anything as solid as marble or stone, but still hardened. Especially with that expression, that steel line of his shoulders.

Alfie admits he has seen some realistic statues before. With soft looking clothes carved from stone and everything.

He can’t help thinking as though this is a bad idea. While Novak is reading, Alfie nudges Hannah’s thigh and makes his expression a question.  
  
‘Trust me’ Hannah mouths and well…

Alfie trusts their vision, even if he can’t see it.

“I will sign these,” Novak says after several long minutes of quiet reading, he tucks the contract under his arm and levels a gem-cut stare down on Hannah. “I’ll email them to you Monday.”

Unlike with Dean there is no real goodbye here. Novak peeved enough, or lost in his thoughts (though Alfie’s not really in the mood to give him the benefit of the doubt here), that he seems to find it fitting to turn right around and leave without another word.

The ensuing quiet left in Officer Novak’s wake is weighty. Though the Three Locals Café around them is bustling. A server takes an order from the next table over, Alfie notices Novak’s untouched coffee, how own empty mug and wonders if, given this is Vegas, it might be alright to ask for something stiffer.

Eyes still after Novak’s retreating back, Alfie asks: “Did that sound like a threat to you too?”

 Hannah finishes their, now too-cool, coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back in the house  
> Heels click-clackin' about  
> Fine, fresh, feminine, style to eleven  
> Here's a chappy for you  
> look out
> 
>  
> 
> (seriously though hope you like it! Let me know n_n stuff's'a'happening!)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Dean dances on a pole, Sam's real reason for his Las Vegas visit is revealed

To say Sam is nervous is an understatement.

As far as the Vegas Strip goes, Sam has found himself more familiar than one would expect with the Roadhouse. A bar-slash-burlesque studio around the corner of Harmon Avenue and the Las Vegas Boulevard. He’d come to know it from his very first trip to the city with his brother, wide-eyed and a little overwhelmed while Dean declared ‘this’ll be mine someday’, and in the rocky years since (as the Winchesters aren’t exactly known for facing their problems in a tactful, healthy manner) Dean’s stayed firm to that dream.

Firm enough that it’s rare for a visit between the two brothers in this area to pass without Sam sliding up in the shrub littered alleyway along the side, banging the red fire exit door, rusted and cracked open. Being ushered inside by security, Benny, a Cajun Sam’s developed an amicable enough relationship with over the years, and given free chilled water while watching Dean scurry around with some of the other performers, train and practice or even help Benny and Ellen upstairs and behind the bar (the upstairs, Sam has come to know, being nothing short of an exclusive brothel).

In the last five or so years of Sam and Dean working to become _Sam and Dean_ again, the Roadhouse has felt warm, and welcoming. But it still feels very much Dean’s territory over his own. Dean’s world, so far removed from Sam’s own, and even in the daylight of an early Thursday morning, closed as the club is, Sam is intimidated. A little ill at ease.

But of course, that could just be leftover sympathy pain from Eileen informing him hours ago of her latest bout of morning sickness. Sam’s gut still twists at hearing her recount of vomiting _inside_ her own nose, and smelling it for the rest of the day. Jesus.

The Roadhouse is more on the intimate side, prioritising performance and atmosphere over the flashiness of your standard Vegas nightclub or bar. The lack of distinct partying is refreshing, Sam thinks, as the Vegas club trend moves between the blinding, flashing technicolour and the upscale luxury and opulence of clubs like Hyde Bellagio and Jewel. Sam has found it relaxing, as far as Vegas goes.

Only moments after Sam enters the studio, the formerly relaxing, tidy space looks as though it has been hit by a natural disaster. Camera and audio equipment is strewn haphazardly across the floor, abandoned by operators who have placed them about the main room, over near the bar. One camera is being held by a boy— _man,_ who is having a serious conversation with another person who seems only half listening. Their attention intent down on their phone. Another boy— _man,_ jeez these two are young—is rounding up cords in his hands.

The vast main room adjacent to the bar is split into two sections around a central circular stage. Surrounded by plush couches, booths and tables, while the two sections are expanses of open floor space on either side, leading back stage and upstairs, the stage with its own mini catwalk coming into the clustering of audience seating, currently plays centre stage for a shiny silver dance pole, upon which Sam’s brother swings.

In the early years, when the wounds of Dean’s leaving, John’s influence and Mum’s heartbreak were still raw, the idea of having his brother up on a pole, dancing for money would have sent Sam truly spiralling, a mix of embarrassment, frustration and concern. In those early years just the thought of Dean, of him being a dancer, a sex worker, himself, had been enough to turn Sam away from him for a longer time than he liked to admit.

Sam wonders if it wasn’t for Eileen, he might not have come around to Dean’s profession and interests in quite the quick timing, as she seemed to be of the belief, when Sam late one night had opened up to her, that Dean’s living situation was a good one if it was one he chose. That if he was happy, then Sam should be happy for him.

“It’s his life,” she’d reminded him. “If he’s happy and if he’s being safe and it’s not hurting anyone, then what’s the problem?”

She had been there while Sam researched; prostitution, the law, sex culture, dancing, burlesque, sex work all over. She’d been in the background of his early phone calls with Dean, a hand to his thigh or wrist, solid, grounding support. She’d been there.

The last few nights without Eileen have been tough. Sam almost resents the fact that he’s here in the first place, that she’s able to sleep without him (possibly better if he is to go by her more playful texts), while all he’s been able to manage is tossing and turning without her and once passing out on Dean’s couch in front of his massive TV, much to his neck’s chagrin.

Normally when Sam can’t sleep Eileen cards her fingers through his hair, nails scratching just at the base of his neck, drawing swirls down his neck and along the line of his shoulders, until sleep takes him. His head resting on her lap or chest.

Sleeping without her has been the worst, he should have asked her to come, but no.

“I’m no so far along that I can’t fly Sam.” she’d said to him the morning before his departure. “Don’t you think it’s time I meet Dean in person?"

But, “not yet” Sam had said. “He’s sensitive about this because of Ben and Lisa. He’s my brother. I- I have to do this alone.”

Yeah. Current Sam thinks past Sam is an idiot.

Looking at Dean up on the pole, simple shirt soaked through, dark shorts clinging to sweaty thighs, Sam knows in theory that he has all the muscular structure and body parts to pull off the same motions but—Dean circles the pole once, twice, propelling himself with his fast gripping arms and steel core alone—

Yeah, no way you’ll find Sam trying that.

Dean moves like water filling a glass. Incredible fluidity, though it’s clear he’s only playing, not performing any piece of real choreography. He seems to be just passing time while the cameras and their personnel around him take a breather. The lines Dean makes with his body are long and elegant, quick, sharp angles. He circles again, once twice, climbing higher as he goes. Suddenly, he kicks one leg up and hooks his heel and foot around the pole. He raises the other leg out, flag like, before spotting Sam on his third rotation. He slows but doesn’t get down.

“Sup bitch.” Dean calls, maintaining some momentum so that, as Sam comes closer, he has to look up.

“You know, for a staunch feminist you use a lot of gendered slurs.” Sam comments lightly.

Dean, still spinning around the pole adjusts his hold before bringing his chest in closer, arms locked tight, as though to suspend him in one place as he arches his legs out in a delicate but obviously strenuous concave curl.

“Reclamation,” he releases the hold, spinning once more. “…bitch.”

The last is said with a cheeky, white toothed grin. Dean with deadly dimples.

Sam wonders if it would be rude to pelt something at his suspended brother. “You know you’re _not_ a woman, right?”

Dean picks up speed, spinning with more purpose. “Sorry Sam, can’t hear you over how fucken.” He punctuates his words with a sudden lurch up the pole, nose bridge and forehead so close to the metal they’re almost resting against it.

“Majestic.” Another, higher lunge.  “I. Am.”

It happens whip quick, the way Dean hooks his legs in a certain, seemingly impossible hold and then drops. Sam not as used to the antics as seemingly everyone else in the bar, flinches as Dean falls only to be caught by his legs. He stops upside down in a cross position, nothing but his legs, from thigh to ankle keeping him from smacking the ground.

Sam is glad to see he isn’t the only one caught off guard, the three owners of all the cords of equipment all react in varying levels. The middle one looks up from their phone, eyes wide, as though caught between rushing forward to help and falling back. Of the two men, the one holding the camera barks out a gasp, almost dropping what he’s holding. The second yelps “Holy Shit, Dude” and gets smacked by the first for the remark.

Dean, arms outstretched messiah like, beams at Sam’s surely caught expression. He twists his hands up, still outstretched and raises both middle fingers to Sam.

“Majestic as _fuck,_ Sammy.” 

Sam can hear Benny by the bar chuckling, and resorts after flipping Dean a bird of his own, to head over. He’s trying to work out the knots in his own gut when the thought catches him. Mum’s fair skin and green eyes, on a face that could be a younger version of John’s, Sam’s caught with the opposing image of what his brother was like five, six years ago. A brother who still had affection in his voice when he called Sam Sammy or “Sasquatch” but seemed almost…dead inside. Seventeen, eighteen, trapped on his own in Lawrence by their parents, by their father, _with_ Lisa. Only really able to get out by moving out of their family home to Bobby Singer’s and then eventually here, away from it all.

That Dean is so different to this Dean. Joking, laughing, healthy, _happy_.

Sam detours from the bad and excuses himself to the bathroom.

Why, after all this time, is this still so hard? Sam admits they’ve come a long way from not even talking to one another to here, now, but still thoughts of before creep up on him. And telling Dean what he came up here to tell him in the first place is just a little more difficult than Sam expected it would be.

He splashes cold water from the sink onto his face.

He has to say it. Dean has to know, has to hear it from him.

And then he can work on getting Eileen and Dean in the same room.

When Sam finally resurfaces and returns to the bar, Dean is off the pole and leaning heavily on a bar stool. Benny opposite him, meeting him halfway across the bar top. Ellen down the other end, (the Roadhouse’s primary creative producer, bartender and owner), is stacking away booze.

As Sam nears he sees that Benny and Dean are close, their voices low, at least until Benny murmurs something with a wry grin that has Dean sniggering, laughing, and touching his arm. Benny returns a smile before his eyes flick from Dean to Sam approaching and he steps back a bit, offering Sam a polite nod in greeting, which Sam returns.

Dean straightens up, sweat slick and a little flushed still from his antics onstage, he gets up from his stool and purposefully cracks his fingers, rolling back his shoulders.

“Just be a minute.” He tells Sam who comes to sit on the stool nearby. He calls out in the same breath to Ellen. “Mind if I take a shower upstairs El?”

“Please, for my sanity.” Ellen replies while Benny swats Dean on the butt with a dishtowel as he passes.

“Make sure you scrub clean for your date tonight Cher.”

“A date with my _brother_. Man.”

“C’mon now, we both know he’s the most important man in your life.” At this Benny flicks Sam a cute wink and a smirk.

 Sam just rolls his eyes while Dean cackles, “You know me too well man.” He flips Benny off and disappears upstairs.

It’s strange, Sam thinks, the way Benny and his brother talk so openly, enough that a part of Sam feels Jealous that he and Dean can’t seem to do the same. The honest stuff, the real stuff is still difficult for them, way too difficult to make flippant jokes off yet.

For instance, the whole Cas situation is obviously eating at Dean. Sam can tell by the way Dean both clams up and seems ready to burst at the seams about it. The way he hides information and fixes fake smiles on his face when Cas is mentioned, or in the last few days, when Cas’ messages come up on his phone.

Dean’s tense, it’s a new tenseness since the night they ran into Cas at the bar, as though Dean’s winding himself up to something, but Sam’s not even sure if Dean’s at the place where he will ever let loose about it. Actually, pursue Cas instead of dancing around it, and getting himself into more trouble. Actual trouble this time, the emotional kind, the heartbreak kind.

Sam knows he can’t fix it, certainly can’t while he’s back in school, and he knows Dean wouldn’t let him anyway but, can’t they at least _talk_ about it? Figure out some solution Dean could take. They’re close, Sam figures, as close as brothers can get, but why are the big, meaningful things always the hardest thing between them to bring up?

From across the bar Sam feels Ellen’s heavy gaze. “Ground control to Major Sam.” she says.

Sam likes Ellen, he really does. Dean has a knack for finding good people in this town, and Ellen, Kansas grown same as them, is one of the best. The Roadhouse her baby, outside of her actual baby Jo, now traversing somewhere in Europe with her boyfriend, is only so great because _she_ is great. Welcoming because _she_ is welcoming. No wonder Dean still likes to dance and operate here.

Ellen steps in closer to them as soon as Sam looks up at her. “Been a while, Sam,” she says.

Her gaze is trained. Steely. Sam wishes this bar was big enough to hide behind. "Uh, yeah, haven’t had the time to come up since..." before the baby. He thinks but doesn’t say. He gestures out with his hand, literally passing some sort of invisible ball over to her.

Ellen purses her lips. “School keeping you busy?”

“Yes. Totally.”

The truth.

“And how’s your girl. Eileen?”

“She’s…” Sam finds something that is enough truth that he won’t be giving away his biggest announcement, possibly his biggest life moment, away on a whim. “Amazing. Next time. I’ll bring her up.”

“You better. Dean talks non-stop about the both of you. Makes one wonder when you’re going to put a ring on it.”  
  
From behind the display case Benny snorts.  
  
Sam chucks him a glare, hoping that hides the sudden flushing of his cheeks. “Dean said that?”

“Course not, you know how your brother is with… that sort of thing.” Ellen waves a dismissive hand. “But the rest of us don’t have the same kinda hang ups about young marriage as he does. Y’know. When you love someone you love someone, when you know it’s right you know it’s right.”

Sam doesn’t mention Dean has _very_ valid concerns about marriage, young or not, considering everything, but he bites his tongue, taking the victory of the moment of not bursting out with his secret before he gets the chance to tell Dean, for what it is. Now it's time to prepare for the second baby step.

Sam could care less about Ellen’s suspicious gaze, though, because for the first time in years he finally feels as though he and Dean getting somewhere. This is it. This is the big test of their repaired relationship, the first big thing to happen to either of them since their reconnection, the first test and Sam wants nothing more than for them both to pass with flying colours.

Inside of his worry, dig down deep within the stress and he’s actually excited to tell Dean he’s about to be an uncle.

“So, this is what Dean’s contract was about?” Sam asks gesturing out to the mess across the Roadhouse floor.  
   
Benny looks up from his rag. “Dean told you bout that?”

“Kinda hard not to. I went over his contract.” A twist of discomfort Sam cannot quite place pulses in his gut. Worry, he guesses. Concern. He puts it aside. Turns to Ellen. “Didn’t think you’d be into this sorta thing.” 

“If filming here gets some promotion for the House. Some buzz for next seasons show, I’m okay with it.” Though she says this her tone is terse, expression bothered. “But, I swear those cords are a tripping hazard.” she replies and heads off to the three filmmakers in question. “Excuse me!”

The two boys from earlier look up with caught-in-headlight expressions.

Sam meets the curious gaze of the third before looking away.

“Suppose that’s a good deal then.” he says, and Benny agrees with a non-committal grunt.

It seems as though he wants to say something important, but his mouth twists from beneath his beard, he’s holding back a few words when he says, “Can ya help me bring a keg up.”

It’s more of a demand than a question but his tone is somewhat polite.

“Sure,” Sam says, though he’s also pretty sure that Benny, as beefy as he is and as long as he’s been working here can bring a keg up on his own. He relents down, and follows Benny down with a trolley into the cellar. Silent all the way, until they’re each on either side of the keg, ready to lift.

“So, you went through Dean’s papers.” Benny asks (untactfully), to which Sam nods (with some strain, crouched as he is on the other side of a 166-pound keg).

“He getting’ paid for that doco deal then? They treatin’ him fairly?”

Sam’s touched a little that Benny cares. A little miffed too that Benny seems to think Sam would let him go on with the deal if they were exploiting him for it.

“It all checks out. They don’t actually seem to have a lot to offer. But if anything does come from the film, Dean gets his fair cut. And a say on the final cut.” 

Benny nods, seemingly satisfied, and they grunt and heave together bringing the keg up. Though as Sam suspected, Benny is alright to take full reins on the trolley once they’ve got it loaded. Benny comes up with the keg as Sam rounds back the way they came down. He meets him back behind the bar and helps him wheel the keg off into position.

“Thanks.” Benny says, as he pulls out his cell phone. “Need to head out and get the kid some grub.” He says, talking about Dean. “Suppose I’ll need to get them some too.” He looks to the filmmakers who are still deep in discussion (or at least one of them is) with Ellen. “Hospitable thing to do and all.”

Sam asks. “Order in?”

“Delivery’s shit round here. I’ll fetch it.”

There’s a knock on the bar top and both men still hovering around the keg look up.

Dean freshly showered in the same shorts and a new ratty grey robe, stands on the other side of the bar, dripping water from his hair line onto the deep redwood bar top. “Girls upstairs are voting for pizza.” He says.

Benny arches one eyebrow. “Did you ask or you just assuming?”

Dean bites the inside of his cheek, forcing coy. “Aww c’mon Benny. S’long as Ellie gets her Vegan-who’s-what’s-it, the rest of us’ll deal.”

“Be on it your head if there’s any complaints.” Benny counters and steps aside to make the call. Sam comes back around the bar to sit by Dean who makes himself comfortable.

“I can’t believe you wear that thing.”

Dean wrinkles his nose at he looks down at himself. At the old, grey dead man robe he’s wearing. “What? He’s lucky.”

“It smells like someone died in it.”

“He’s lucky Sam, if I washed him he’d stop being lucky.”

Benny rounds thee corner and makes a gesture to show he’s heading off for the food, Sam nods, Dean tosses a thumbs up before digging, _quite_ a sizable amount of cash out of his robe and passing it over with claims of ‘my treat’.

Sam rolls his eyes, and says when Benny’s gone. “Why anyone actually pays to have sex with you I’ll never know.”

Dean barks a laugh at that, swinging childishly on his seat. “My boyish charms. My perky nipples.”

Sam works hard to erase that mental picture from his mind when Dean continues. “Now, whattaya wanna do tonight, your last night in paradise? Gamble? A club? A bar? Binge Netflix in our jammies and order in more pizza?” Dean says the last in a rushed breath, as though he’s embarrassed for saying it.

Sam catches on instantly, rests his elbows on the bar top. "Is that what you wanna do?"

Dean’s a little sheepish when he shrugs. “Whatever you wanna do man, I don’t get ta see you that often. Y’know.”

Sam is almost swept up in this whole thing, the charming fast talk, the smirks, the head shrink tactics. Guilt trips. God, Sam loves his brother but he can be a manipulative bastard sometimes. Consequences of surviving being John Winchester’s kids? Sam personally thinks so. These are things he learned growing up and learned even more about at when he left for school and with Eileen’s help, sought support from a therapist. Throughout Stanford, he’s been exposed to all sorts of lawyers who have similar courtroom tactics. It’s bullshit Sam’s become finely attuned to. Resistant to.

Dean catches himself on his own bullshit thankfully. He winces. “Sorry. That was unfair.”

“I know,” Sam replies, pointedly not apologising, because he doesn’t _need_ to. He thinks about segueing into his whole purpose for visiting. Thinks about it, and tries it miserably, “Thought we could stay in, look at some stuff online.”  
  
Smooth Winchester.

Dean balks. “I usually do that shit alone, Sammy.”

“No, you sex creep! Just... Eileen and, we’re…” Sam’s voice catches like a lump in his throat.

‘Yeah?’ Dean looks away, lips pursed. “You and Eileen?”

Sam blinks. “Jeez, what was that?”

“What was what?”

“ _That_ _tone_.”

Dean still looking away, now has his shoulders jerked up to his ears. “I don’t have a tone.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“Forgive me for worrying you’re about to tell me something stupid. Like you’re getting married or, or,” Dean crumples a little in on himself, hands braced on the bar top, as though to get up.

 _To leave again._ Sam’s stomach plummets.

“I dunno,” he blurts exasperated. “Something stupid.”

 A fire burns in Sam’s gullet. His stomach dropping further.

“Guess I’m stupid then.” He says. “Because we are getting married.” Dean’s jaw goes slack from Sam dropping that first bombshell and now the second. “Because we’re having a baby.”

Dean stops cold at that.

This is decidedly not how Sam planned to tell him.

“I wanna look at baby stuff online with you, you,” Sam’s fist clenches, he hoped really hoped that Dean would be able to wade through all of his weird hang ups and be _happy_ for them. For him. “You infuriating weirdo.”

Dean looks shocked still, unmoving, eyes wide, face a little red and getting redder. That shouldn’t make Sam want to cry, but it kinda does, _especially_ when Dean turns away from him, lifts a hand to his face.

“You’re gonna be an uncle,” Sam tells him, softer, for clarification.

He watches Dean as he runs his fingers through his shower wet hair and stares at a fixed spot on the ground. When he moves it’s sudden with the same whip quick speed he has on the pole, Sam flinches and feels silly for reacting so because in an instant Dean’s arms are wrapped up and around his neck and his brother is hugging him, holding him so tight he might think Sam’ll float away if he lets up.

A hug, god. Sam crawls into it. Blissful, thankful. It’s stupid being almost twenty-five, for Sam to still get a rush out of feeling safe in his big brothers arms but he does. He really does. His big brother doesn’t hate him. Dean lets out a breath and sinks heavily into him.

“Fuck, you scare me, sometimes Sammy.” he admits in Sam’s ear. “Really.”

Sam hugs him back tightly.

“Sorry.” he does apologise this time, and means it. Dean’s shaking in his arms, face tucked tight to Sam’s shoulder, arms squeezing along his back.

It is a surprise that, instead of pulling away, Dean stays in close and, Sam realises with a painful lurch in his chest that his big brother’s crying.

“Hey,” he says, drawing back, but still a hand on either shoulder, keeping Dean grounded the same way Eileen grounds him. A childlike worry flitters in his voice. “Hey, Dean?”

Dean sniffs and rubs his eyes with the sleeve of his gross robe. “Happy tears you prick.” And though he’s probably lying at least a little bit, Sam lets it pass.

Dean sniffs again. “A baby?” he asks wetly.

“Yeah. Three months along, now.”

Dean’s answering smile feels unexpected but genuine. Gathering itself shakily up on his red, teary face. “A baby? Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees laughing a little. “Pretty much had a similar reaction when Eileen told me.”

He remembers pretty much collapsing, joy and fear and shock and disbelief and _joy_ having warred through him in such quick succession, it had buckled him.

Dean draws him in close again, squeezing him tight before finally letting him go. He rights himself, retying his robe which has fallen open a little. Clearing his throat gruffly, in a way that reminds Sam of Bobby while he scrubs a hand through his hair, over his face, down the back of his neck.  

Once collected, he looks at Sam, that shaky uncertain smile in place. “You got sonogram or something? Pictures? I wanna see your kid.”

“Yeah. With my stuff at your place.” Sam answers.

Dean nods, clears his throat again. “A baby.”

“A baby, yeah.” Sam says smiling.

“And, marriage.” Dean says, looking at Sam outta the corner of his eye, his lips downturned a little. He’s silent for a tense moment, then; “You’re twenty-four Sam.”

Sam represses an eye roll. This isn’t like how it was back then. “I’m having a kid, Dean, but this isn’t--this isn’t like you and Lisa. No one is forcing us into this. We wanted a baby. We want to get married. I love her.” Sam holds out his hands. “I want you to meet her.”

They embrace again, briefly this time before Dean pulls away and gives Sam a pat on the back.

“Guess the good thing about being your own boss is you can take as much time off as you want.” Dean says this with a cocky smile. “Someone’s gotta be there to handle the kids having a kid.”

“Jerk,” Sam says, but only lightly. “So, anyway. You’ll need to check in with Cas about when he’s free.”

Dean throws him a questioning look. “Uhh, why?”

“Well, we want to have the wedding before the baby arrives.” Sam says hiding a tiny smirk. “So, save the dates will go out before spring, and you’ll have a plus one to--oww! Don’t _hit_ me!”

Dean backs off, flips him off and Sam laughs.

 

 ___________

 

And later if after a few solid hours of Dean helping him make up a gift registry for the baby, and saying he was so “proud of you Sammy for not doing that gender reveal bullshit”. After the sonogram has been viewed and a copy sent to Dean’s phone, after all that, Sam catches Dean sending a text message to Castiel with the caption “I’m an uncle” when Dean leaves his phone on the edge of the couch while making coffee, if after all that Sam gets a little teary eyed, then Dean’s none the wiser. Especially when Sam blames it on sympathy hormone imbalance.

“That’s bullshit Sammy. You actually believe in that crap?!”  
  
"I don't need to believe it if I can  _feel it_. Dean."

"Ugh. You're the worst."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Again--"  
  
"RECLAMATION!"

In the end of the day if Dean’s safe and healthy and happy, Sam’s happy.

 

___________ 

 

**9:43 PM**

>  **Cas N**  SENT

        You will make an incredible uncle Dean.  
        I’m very happy for you.  
        Have a good night with your brother ox  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LISA IS NOT A VILLAIN DONT WORRY
> 
> There are no villains in this story, well- there is one guy but- he’s less of a villain and more of a dick- you’ll see..
> 
> Anyways- no villains- just people making choices in tough situations
> 
> Except for that one guy
> 
> Fuck that one guy


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean does a lot of talking, a lot of thinking about talking, and a lot of avoidance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm Soupernabturel on Tumblr and I'm almost at 2500 followers (squee) come say hi!

Audio Transcript:

 

 **Session 1;** Dean Winchester, August 3, 2018; **(Initial Interview, Introductory)**

 

H Johnson: --We’re on. Alright, Dean, do you have enough water?

D Winchester: I mean. Wouldn’t cry over a top up?

H Johnson: One second…

(wordless humming, fingers tapping on table top)

D Winchester: (singing) Your head is humming…it won’t go….in case you don’t kno-ow...the piper’s calling you to— hey, thanks

H Johnson: okay, here you go.

D Winchester: Thank you.

H Johnson: Alright. Let’s get started.

(rifling papers)

H Johnson: Hello Dean.

D Winchester: (laughs) Hey.

H Johnson: Do you mind if I get right into it?

D Winchester: No, sure. I’d actually prefer it.

H Johnson: Prefer a more direct route?

D Winchester: Always. Have at me.

H Johnson: Alright, so. Tell me what most people are looking for when they make contact with you?

D Winchester: My clients? What they’re looking for?

H Johnson: Yes.

D Winchester: Well, plain and simple? I think most of them are looking for the fantasy.

 

____________

 

Cas texts Dean the most random-ass things.

He texts. Doesn’t call, and when he texts Dean recieves small glimpses into conversations between people Dean doesn’t know. Thoughts like fun facts appearing out of thin air with a ping, lines from documentaries that are points of interest to Cas, but things Dean never thought people made films about (a history of chairs?). He gets pictures of gardens and flowers, Dean’s absolutely positive aren’t growing up around on their own in Nevada. When he sends that back, Cas replies with the link to his favourite nursery, in Colorado.

Cas’ erratic stream of conscious updates become a staple of Dean’s day. From morning well into the evening, Dean’s pretty sure that this is the first time he’s used his personal phone more than his client number in years. Slowly, Dean starts to expect Cas’  name to flash up on his screen when he feels a vibration in his pocket, or hears a bell-like chime from across the room, instead of the usual slew of bookings, enquiries and reminders from Charlie.

It’s while Dean is out for dinner and drinks, the standard with most his clients, that he feels a small _fbbtzz_ in his pocket.

Normally, while on a date Dean doesn’t bring his own phone, his personal phone, with him. Normally, when Dean is out he leaves his phone at home, but lately…

He’s been keeping both on him almost constantly. Each phone getting its own pocket.

Dean slips away to the bathroom with a brief apology and a peck to his client’s cheek. Sliding into a cubicle, he fishes out his phone, thumbs it open and Cas’ message sits there, a small thing:

_Do you know how hard it is to get vodka out of cloth?_

Dean looks to his phone, seeing the time and remembering the day, he texts back teasingly, _Shouldn’t you be at work?_

For a few hours, Cas doesn’t reply. Dean certainly doesn’t excuse himself enough to warrant the comment at the end of if he is feeling well, but it straightens him out, and he buries his phone in the bottom of his bag, insessant checking of it put to the side.

Later, Dean is rinsing himself off in the shower when, sitting upon the edge of his sink, his phone lights up with Cas’ name.

_I was._

_I have also found out that the stench of vomit is enough to overpower the scent of thrown vodka._

_In case you were curious._

Dean still sudsy and wet, dripping soapy water onto the tiles, laughs and when he tumbles into his own large, memory foam bed minutes later, decidedly not overeager, he fights back the impulse to reply straight away.  _Act cool Winchester._

He’ll send his condolences in the morning. 

____________

 

 **Session 1;** Dean Winchester, August 3, 2018; **(Initial Interview, Introductory)**

 

H Johnson: Explain what you mean by the fantasy?

D Winchester: Right, so the fantasy is essentially, me right? My clients, mostly cis men, but my clients run the gambit from high powered business men to husband of three kids to guy who’s never had sex before. Even if these guys are rich, they ain’t exactly got stress free lives, any of the clients, of all genders, they’ve got dirty diapers to change, empires to run, a nagging partner at home, they have stress and work or school and the pressures of dating… a million little things.

So the fantasy is that for about a grand an hour they can escape all that. They want to have a moment with a gorgeous person who sits there and acts like they're the center of the universe, even if it's only for an hour. They want to feel attractive — or have the boyfriend experience or just want someone to listen to them. Try some things out they’re too scared to try out with their partners, sometimes, people hire me because they’ve never had sex before and are nervous, and I give them something of a professional walk through.

The illusion of control is another thing my clients tend to want with their fantasy. Even if I say who, when, how much, clients like to control the fantasy, knowing I’ll act interested in them no matter what. They know I’ll be willing to do things they want me to do. Listen to them completely and be pretty upfront and objective about it. I mean, you don’t often get to feel like that in life right? Like someone’s interested in you, listening to you?

H Johnson: Sounds as though you do a lot more talking with clients then most would assume.

D Winchester: Most of my line of work, y’know, it’s not actually sex- it’s talking to people. Companionship. A lot of my clients, like I said, are busy people. They don’t have time and feel consistently stressed out. They need an outlet. For some guys, just chatting with me and hanging out with me is the outlet they need. Same for some girls, some enbies. I mean, it's not like a guy who sells himself will judge you.

D Winchester: My bookings tend to be between 4 to 6 hours. Occasionally they're 24 hours or a weekend, which I prefer y’know, ‘cause I get the opportunity to create a real fantasy for the client. It’s a break from their real life and fuck, it’s a break from mine too. Most bookings become a therapy session. Something I’ve talked about with my own therapist.

H Johnson: Is that a requirement of the job? To have your own therapist?

D Winchester: For me it’s a requirement for life. I used to be, real fucked up. Sorry, can I swear?

H Johnson: Yes, that’s fine.

D Winchester: Well, yeah I mean—shit. What was I saying? (laughs)

D Winchester: I do a lot of talking for a living you’d think I’d be better at it.

H Johnson: I noticed you could get a little flustered at the County Jailhouse.

D Winchester: What can I say, I’m better in person than on film. Which, I found out pretty quickly as a sex worker let me tell you. (laughs)

D Winchester: It’s a whole different environment over there ain’t it? Distracting.

H Johnson: I found the jailhouse rather…

D Winchester: hectic?

H Johnson: Different, from what I first anticipated. Sadder I think, than I have filming previous seasons in other locations. Not so much distracting.

H Johnson: Though I suppose it depends on what you are distracted by.

D Winchester: (clears throat, sounds of swallowing water) Y-yeah. I haven’t been back y’know since… uh… our talk. (clears throat)

D Winchester: Keep forgetting that I’m being recorded. Hey future me. Future Hannah.

H Johnson: Feel free not to edit yourself in these interviews, most of what we film and record here won’t even make it into the first cut.

D Winchester: oh yeah?

H Johnson: It’s mostly for my own benefit. To get a lay out of your story, see where I can start feeling the gaps, what narrative arc we can craft with you.

D Winchester: I get a narrative arc, hey? Sweet.

 

____________

 

**9:43 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

    You will make an incredible uncle Dean.

       I’m very happy for you.

       Have a good night with your brother ox  

 

 

Dean stares at his phone for a full flat out minute without blinking.

_ox_

After Sam crawls into bed ending his last evening in Vegas and Dean into his own, Dean bunches the covers tight up under his chin, lays on his side and stares at his phone some more.

The words are very clear, and very sweet but the sign off attached makes no sense at all because it’s from Cas.

_ox_

_Hugs and kisses_.

At some point over the past month and a half, whist Dean has been teasing around the edges, thinking things to himself he would never admit nor speak aloud, Cas must have gotten some sign, some inclination of his interest.

He must--Dean swallows and turns from his side onto his back, the lit up phone screen held high above him Cas last message held in stark contrast to the rest of the night-dark room. Maybe Cas is here for this, ready. Whatever hangups he has about Dean’s work, sometime, somehow he’s gotten past them without Dean’s noticing and he’s...willing to try, this. _Them_.

He looks up at the screen again.

_ox_

God, it’s been near to five minutes now, Dean has to answer. Type something. Say something. Reply reply reply.

He doesn’t want to reply though. It’s late and he’s bone tired, Sam’s news while exhilarating (Dean’s happy for the kid, he is) has unknotted some things in his chest that have to much to do with Dean’s own hurts and regrets with Lisa with...Ben. Dean turns back on his side and buries his face in his pillow, the low throb in his chest a hole where Ben should be aches. His son.

He doesn’t want to reply to Cas feeling falayed and vulnerable like this, all his veins exposed and hot wired. Now guilt free with Sam asleep, he can pick at the Lisa and Ben shaped scab in his chest.

Even more guilt ridden than that is the persistent giddiness that invades at a very small, very simple ox. Dean tries to convince himself that Cas probably didn’t even mean it like that, has no idea how it to comes across, maybe he autocorrected it from something else. Maybe he’s talking about an ox, the animal… or some shit, it’s in line with Cas’ twitter-esque randomness. Him sending Dean any thought or query as though on a whim. It fits, it sits comfortably, but...

Dean tries to think back to the last person he kissed without them having had the pleasure of paying for it and all he gets is a fuzzy indistinct face in a club two years ago for Charlie’s 28th birthday, anything more than that is so much of a haze it’s non existent. _Hugs and kisses_ , kissing Cas, jesus.

Dean imagines for a moment, Cas in his room. _Hugs and kisses._ What would that even be like?

Unconsciously, Dean’s fingers toy with the swell of his bottom lip. Cocooned in his own bed, alone he is safe and free to imagine whatever he likes, and the thought of Cas sprawled out beside him then takes hold. Cas bleary eyed and messy haired, lying beside him. Dean watching Cas lay there, so far in disbelief and relief that he has to reach out and touch him. Running a palm over his defined shoulder, scooting closer, pressing and feeling the even, reassuring thump thump of Cas’ heart. Dean would touch him softly, and he pictures Cas snuggling closer into the heat of them, an arm snaking its way around Dean’s waist, Cas tucking his head under Dean’s chin to try and bring them as close together as possible for a lazy morning.

Dean imagines he can hear it, the sleepy roughness of Cas’ voice, scratchy with disuse saying his name and drawing him in closer, a soft exhale against his cheek, as the softness of a bed is replaced by the softness of an embrace.

Cas has only ever had his hands on Dean under the guise of arrest or as a part of the process. The realisation of this actually stuns Dean a little. They have never actually hugged (let alone kissed) but it’s the hugging (or lack thereof) that guts Dean hardest, seems the most impossible, have they really never--

Ping.

Dean blinks, a faint ring of light escapes from his phone where it’s resting face down on his chest, half buried in the covers. The sound is a near gunshot in the quiet of the room. At first Dean freezes, before remembering himself and sitting up a little, reaching for it.

A new message.

 

____________

 

 **Session 4;** Dean Winchester, August, 19, 2018; **Direct Interview (Exposition)**

 

H Johnson: What was your first escort experience like?

D Winchester: My first time out on the street, or out on my own cause the two are very different.

H Johnson: You. First time with any sort of sex work.

D Winchester: It was...quick. Didn’t even realise at the time it was what it was y’know? I was younger than most, just turned seventeen. Going through a shit time, rebellious phase with a fucked up sense of my own sexuality. Ditched home and my fia—my girlfriend at the time with the explicit purpose to go out and get fucked up with a dude. Prove myself or some hyper masculine bullshit, I dunno.

D Winchester: Anyways, I gave a guy a hand job out the back of a gas station. My first guy. After we got done he gave me thirty bucks, wasn’t expecting it and hell, fucker under paid me but, jokes on him, ‘cause I woulda jerked him off for free.

H Johnson: You had a girlfriend at the time?

D Winchester: Imma let you imagine how that one turned out. She’s married now if that speaks for anything. Matthew. Met him while I was in the area, visiting my mum a few years back. He's nice.

H Johnson: I suppose there is a...stereotype of the industry. Having something of a  tragic backstory that drove you to this choice? Or the difficult upbringing?

D Winchester: I ain’t saying my past is squeaky clean, I’ve done some shit to good people that I would take back if I could, especially as a kid but, uh, that ain’t tied to this, not in the way people probably thinking.

H Johnson: Do you wish you could go back and change things?

D Winchester: I mean, we all have regrets and shit, yeah? For the most part though, nah, I own my fucked up choices which is separate from me owning that I wanted a way out and saw this as the way out. I own I fell in love with it, the money, freedom, sex, everything along the way.

H Johnson: that’s an honourable way to think about it, owning your own choice. But interesting too, you have been so candid and open with me about almost every facet of your life and work thus far, but with your past...

D Winchester: You gotta buy me a lot more coffee and pie if you want me spilling my sordid secrets for your cameras.

H Johnson: So, you do have a past.

D Winchester: ...Everyone’s got a past.

(End recording)

 

____________

 

**9:52 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

         Sorry, autocorrect.

 

____________

 

 

 **Session 8;** Dean Winchester, August, 22, 2018; **Direct Interview (Archival)**

 

H Johnson: Do you still get nervous before you see clients?

D Winchester: A little yeah, but excited too y’know. I like meeting new people. Catching up with regulars. I’ve actually developed some pretty cool friendships outta this. I mean there’s everyone down at the Roadhouse, where I dance. And..guess I’ve just come to meet a lot of new people. Some people from all round the world. And I’ve travelled too, in some cases to meet em. That’s awesome right? Wouldn’t of gotten to do that tied down in Lawrence.

H Johnson: Speaking of Lawrence. Do your parents or any of your friends know about what you do?

D Winchester: Most of my friends are in the industry in some form so, yeah of course they know. My parents...yes. We just don’t talk about it. My brother knows, but I know he doesn’t make it common knowledge to others, and I don’t want him to feel bad about not wanting others to know. Honestly, I don’t care if he tells his mates he’s got a brother in finance or something. I respect it. I’m not ashamed or nothing, I just know he’s worries.

H Johnson: Because it’s illegal?

D Winchester: Yeah. Naughty me.

 

____________

 

It’s always hard to say goodbye to Sam, but seeing how happy and how good he and Eileen are together, makes it easier. Someone else is out there taking care of his brother, Dean knows, which is a relief.

A part of Dean is okay though with getting some of his own space back, especially after last night.

Cas’ little...autocorrect.

God, he feels like an idiot.

“Hey,” Sam says kinda gentle. Dean looks up from his coffee, they’re outside Sam’s terminal, luggage already checked, both being fueled by deadline and coffee alone. Dean would be tense all on his own just being in an airport, he travels for work, doesn’t mean he won’t get in Baby and gun for a road trip halfway across the country any day over being paid by some client to fly first class. It’s a point of pride he thinks, to make the journey himself, though it can be a pain for others. The good thing is  nowadays Dean’s doesn’t much feel the need to travel too much for work, he can be picky. Picky enough that he only risks the odd plane ride for those few regulars he enjoys himself enough with, and knows he’ll get several days work out of if they request him on a deadline that can’t be met with a road trip.

Sam, unlike Dean in so many areas, is happy to waste his money on a flight.

“Don’t know why you’re flying.” Dean grumbles around the rim of his coffee. He takes a sip. “Metal death trap hurtling through the sky. Not when you could drive, it isn’t that far.”

As far as diversions go it’s pretty weak, even by Dean’s standards. Though he feels he can hardly be blamed. His muscles (especially thighs) ache in that way that speak to a good workout yesterday, which is normally quite the pleasure. Dean finds, the satisfying ache of a workout actually rewarding (similar to his second favourite kind of ache, though that’s not anything he needs to think about with Sam seated across from him), but coupled with an insomniac headache that not even memory foam could cure, Dean’s....very much needing to wallow right now. Needing to retreat into his room and lick his wounds.

On the days when it's all too much, Dean finds himself thankful for the simple, stress-free nature of transactional sex.

“It’s almost eight hours.” Sam says admonishingly, but instead of pressing the point he extends his freakishly long legs beneath the table, knocking Dean’s own. “You’re being ridiculous by the way. With Cas.”

Dean scowls.

“Don’t stare at your phone like it’s murdered your family all morning then leave it out on the bench while in the shower if you don’t want people to snoop.” even though his tone is all self righteous and shit, Sam’s still very much hiding behind his overgrown hair (which is exactly why the damn nerd grew it long in the first place), which Dean hates. Especially because it means Sam knows he’s wrong and is still poking the bear anyway.

“He likes you.” Sam says.

“Leave it alone Sam.”

“It’s obvious! You’re only pretending you’re not seeing it because you’re worried. Because of,” Sam lowers his voice a little, glancing left and right. “Your job. Cas already knows Dean, hell being an officer means he probably knows more than most. He can look past the stereotypes.”

“Exactly,” Dean says forcibly. “Cop. _And_ I’m not the one with hangups about my job. Trust me it’s been years, I know what people get like when they find out I’m not gonna quit for them. And more than that, again, _cop_.” Dean turns away. “It’s smarter to leave it alone.”

Sam snorts. “Since when did you ever make the smarter choice?”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Dean has a flash in his mind of ridding Sam of his long curtain of hair shielding his face. Taking a big damn knife and slicing the mop off, it’s a nasty echo left over from his dad, and the guilt of the thought after he realises this, sours his mood even moreso.

“I’m just saying, give Cas a chance alright?” Sam presses. “Maybe, I dunno _talk_ to him? Get to know him in an environment that is more your speed. That shows him what is good and what you _enjoy_ about your work.”

Dean goes for levity over serious, nerve endings still too raw and exposed from last night, firing off warning sparks into his fingers. “So...you’re telling me to fuck him?”

“Wha--Dean. Jesus, _no._ ”

“You said to show him what I like about my job and--”

“You are _impossible_.”

As the announcement calls for Sam’s gate Dean rises first. Sam sucks down the last dregs of his (yuk) soy latte, shouldering his carry on. As he stands, he says; “I know you hate it, but you’re gonna have to be a little vulnerable, drop the act if you wanna get anywhere with this.”

Dean’s gut twists. “Act?”

“Bravado.”

The sound Dean makes feels ugly in his throat. “He’s a cop Sam. A strict one at that.”

“Doesn’t mean that’s _all_ he is.” Sam says with growing (annoying) insistence. “Feel him out. See if all,” he gestures to Dean, “this is an issue.”

“All me, you mean.” says Dean blankly.

“You’re not just your work. You get that right? No matter how much you try and pretend otherwise.”

Dean swallows and turns away. “Yeah. Well. Next time let’s dissect and assert theories around _your_ love life, alright?” his voice is sour.

A slow wide smile fans out across Sam’s face, carving dimples. “You said love life.”

Jesus. Dean lets out a frustrated breath. “You are a _child_.” Dean finishes off his, luke warm, dissatisfying coffee, adjusts his jeans as he rises. “A child having a child, jesus. I feel sorry for Eileen.”

Like Dean knew it would, the mention of Eileen flips a switch in his brothers mind and the entirety of him, expression, shoulder line, tone, softens.

“You need to come down in the summer to meet her,” he says. “In a couple of months it’ll be a bit harder for us to travel.”

How easily Sam slips into _us_ and _we_ when speaking of Eileen. Dean is both a bit relieved and a bit jealous, some part of him that still hangs onto the _Sam and Dean_ days of their childhood. That part of him, nostalgic,  having a hard time relinquishing some claim, he pushes it aside. Offers his brother a smile.

“Good to know you want to introduce me to your pregnant girlfriend. Finally.”

“Shut up.” Sam says, but it’s light. He’s all earnest with puppy eyes, stepping up into Dean’s space. “You know I love you.”

Dean blows out a breath, but wraps his arms around his brothers neck. There’s so many times Dean has been a shity brother, that Sam in turn has been shit with him and it shows, sometimes in the snips and jabs and weeks of silence between them, after a nerve has been plucked too harshly, but it also melts sometimes, like right now. With arms wrapped around backs and shoulders.

“You too.” he squeezes, once, then lets Sammy go. “Don’t be a stranger alright?

Sam smiles. “Never.”

 

____________

 

 **Session 13;** Dean Winchester, August, 27, 2018; **Direct Interview (Archival)**

 

H Johnson: So, what has your relationship with law enforcement been like?

D Winchester: R-relationship?

H Johnson: Experience. Rather.

D Winchester: Yeah. Ha. Uh, sorry. Uh, experience, yeah, not great. I guess. I started off as a street kid, y’know. Outta my league, just learning the ropes.

H Johnson: With a pimp?

D Winchester: Pimps have been replaced by apps and websites. But, there was a knight I ran with for awhile.

H Johnson: A knight?

D Winchester: Y’know, knight in shining armour. What you’d call a nice pimp? I guess? Ha. He was...kinda loved him a little bit, I think.

H Johnson: Tell me about him.

D Winchester: Cain, he helped sort me out when I first got here, set me up with A. I was kinda besotted to be honest. He was older, more mature, beautiful. I wanted to be with him and also be him y’know? He was a great guy. A gentleman, too. To me and all the girls, when I say that I don’t mean just cis girls. We were all his girls. His and A’s girls. You remember Krissy?

H Johnson: Another sex worker.

D Winchester: Yeah, she runs with A now. Most of the girls you probably seen about the strip do. It’s her territory.

H Johnson: You’re still in contact?

D Winchester: With A sure. Cain…he’s… he’s no longer around. Died. Heart attack.

H Johnson: I’m sorry.

D Winchester: Yeah. He had his own girls too. Two of them, daughters. A wife. I never met em, but, he showed me photos, spoke about them a lot—it’s complicated.

H Johnson: Did you go to his funeral?

(noncommittal sound)

H Johnson: Dean?

D Winchester: Hey, I gotta use the bathroom, can we pause this a sec?

(end recording)

 

____________

 

Dean hasn’t responded to Cas’ text for two weeks.

He tells himself it’s because he’s busy. Sudden upswings in bookings happen, Dean prides himself on always having a steady income, more than enough to get by, but by the size of his bank account recently and taking two to three bookings a day, Dean knows that’s a lie. That he’s taking on more work (than is strictly healthy) than necessary, because in the interim his idle hands fiddle with his personal phone, thumbing out unseen and unsent messages. While idle, Dean thinks about rocking up to the county jail, doing something or saying something incredibly awfully stupid.

Between bookings he hunts online for baby gear, sending bookmarks to Sam. He puts all his free time energy into to fixing up Benny’s car that first week, when it dies on the bartender late after one shift. He drowns himself in disgusting displays of adulthood. He reworks his entire expenses spreadsheet alongside Charlie who is nice enough to take care of the ridiculous admin Dean has in between her side gig she very pointedly doesn’t tell him about and he doesn’t ask about “ignorance is bliss Dean! Trust me, you don’t want to know”.

He also pours himself into the Roadhouse enough that he has to ice his wrists after a training session one day, ending in him rescheduling two bookings.

Everything he does throughout his days only feels longer with Hannah and their boys hovering, filming everything, taking Dean aside to film certain ‘scenes’, real and true to life if not right for that moment (Dean in the office with Charlie, Dean running them through how the Roadhouse upstairs works, Dean giving a tour of his apartment, answering a booking). Following Dean at every opportunity, Dean feels as though he’s gained two hundred extra pounds, and that’s just the weight of the cameras.

He starts to get how all the staff and officers at the Clark County Jail must be feeling having the film crew like nats biting at their skin. It makes Dean feel itchy... raw under a microscope.

Dean’s safe haven is his evenings, anytime he has a booking and maybe a day or two a week which he fills up with more work anyway. A part of him almost hates that though, not having the distraction of the documentary and Hannah’s ‘vision’, because that is when he thinks about Cas the most. Cas’ random little interjections into his day, Dean didn’t realise just how much he enjoyed them until he wasn’t getting them anymore.

Dean hasn’t replied, so Cas hasn’t replied. Whatever chain they had going has a kink in it.

Hannah, though, they’re good at giving Dean his space, once they get what they need for their film or recorded.

It’s at almost three weeks, when Dean has a quiet moment to himself, that he turns on the TV and reruns of Lock Up are on.

His diet has suffered in last few weeks, too many nights out at restaurants or huddled in late with junk food. The screen lights up with incarcerated felons highlighted in orange and beige jumpsuits and Dean, elbow deep in (hateful but for his bowels necessary) leafy greens, pauses in putting away his groceries and watches.

For the next twenty minutes Dean stands in front of an open fridge as two inmates attend disciplinary hearings, receive visits from their families and interact with other inmates.

“You don’t get a lot of thanks in this job.” says one CO. “Days are long, nights, after some of the stuff you see and hear. The experiences inmates tell you about, confide in you with, even if it’s one sided. You have to act like it doesn’t affect you, like you’re not listening but it does.”

“Hell, half the time it’s like we’re therapists instead of officers.” He laughs. “It’s physically demanding. Mentally. Emotionally. I think if we got some more people to see that on the officers side. More inmates to understand that. Some communication between everyone, these places would be different.”

Only half remembering, Dean shuts the fridge door with his hip and reaches for his personal phone off the kitchen counter.

“These places, hell the whole process,” says the Officer on the TV. “Yeah, I think it would be a lot different.”

 

____________

 

 **Session 22;** Dean Winchester, September, 7, 2018; **Direct Interview (Exposition)**

 

H Johnson: You seem..refreshed?

D Winchester: Swear, I spend half my days in the damn shower. Sorry, getting water friggen--

(incoherent grumbling)

D Winchester: Sorry. We gotta make this one quick, had to do some reshuffling today.

H Johnson: We don’t have to do this right now if you’re pressed for time?

D Winchester: Really? You’re an angel.

(End recording)

____________

 

**9:02 PM**

< **You SENT**

                  You free this Saturday?

 

**9:03 PM**

< **You SENT**

                   I’m going to an expo at LVCVA.  
                   Hannah & boys will be filming and  
                   tbh I could use the company.

 

**9:07 PM**

< **You SENT**

                   Someone who doesn’t want to get  
                   something outta me for once

 

**9:08 PM**

<  **You SENT**

lol

 

_____________

 

 **Session 23;** Dean Winchester, September,9, 2018; **Direct Interview (Exposition)**

 

H Johnson: I suppose what most people would be curious about is, how does this affect your love life?

D Winchester: This?

H Johnson: your work

D Winchester: N-not at all (laughs).

D Winchester: can’t affect something that doesn’t exist.

 

____________

 

Dots appear beside Cas’ name before Dean has even sent his third message, They flash for a while. To the extent that Dean--leaning back against his kitchen counter, groceries strewn around him--starts to think Cas is writing what just has to be a very long, very detailed bestseller, but then the dots disappear. In an instant they’re gone and no message comes. As though Cas is backspacing everything that he’d written out.

Then the dots appear again. Stop again. A message comes through and Dean doesn’t even need to open it up because his phone is right there under his thumbs, alight with a new notification.

____________

 

 

 **From:** dwinchester@gmail.com

 **To:**  HannahJ@wusl.ga.com

Date: August 20 2018 10:41

Subject:  _Plan for the Next Few Weeks_

 

Hannah,

I’ve got an outing planned with some of A’s kids for the 13th. Planning on going to this expo (link) reckon you’d be interested tagging along?

The event has an age restriction of 21 for “adult content”, Alfie’ll be alright with his camera?

Also, I’ve got a client who might be interested in a meeting for the film. Wanna talk to you in person about it though, cover some ground rules, game?

Cheers,

 

Dean

 

-

-

-

-

 

 **From:** HannahJ@wusl.ga.com

 **To:**  dwinchester@gmail.com

Date: August 20 2018 11:02

Subject: Re: _Plan for the Next Few Weeks_

 

Dear Dean,

An outing sounds brilliant, and I’ll be sure to let Alfie know your concern for him, but I’m sure he will be able to cope.

Thank you for asking, I would love to work with them. Send me a time that suits for you to meet up, I know your schedule is busy.

I would also like to organise a interview with some people in your life. Some people at the Roadhouse perhaps? Family maybe?

Let’s table that all for our meeting.

Best,

 

Hannah Johnson

 

-

-

-

-

 

 **From:** dwinchester@gmail.com

 **To:** HannahJ@wusl.ga.com

Date: September 8 2018 12:38

Subject: Re:  _Plan for the Next Few Weeks_

 

Mind if Cas tags along?

  
  
\- Dean

 

-

-

-

-

 

 

 **From:** HannahJ@wusl.ga.com

 **To:**  dwinchester@gmail.com

Date: September 9 2018 11:02

Subject: Re: _Plan for the Next Few Weeks_

 

Dear Dean,  
  
That will be fine. Castiel has signed all of the required papers to participate, and we will be happy to accommodate him in the days proceedings.

 

Best,

 

Hannah Johnson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So excited I could get another update ready for you so quickly! **Comments and Kudos are greatly appreciated!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WELCOME TO SEXPO!**
> 
> The world’s longest-running adult exhibition! Specially designed in partnership with SWOPUSA (Sex Workers Outreach Project), Synergy, MyCams, RedHotPie, Flesh Light Q and Club X, Sexpo provides a fun, vibrant and safe environment for open minded adults and industry professionals.  
>    
>              — **SEXPO USA** – Health, Sexuality and Lifestyle Exhibition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought ya'll deserved an extra large update because I won't be able to update for a bit starting a new job!! 
> 
> I'm working in an organisation that helps develop and give opportunities to writers under 25 (Living in Australia)
> 
> Funny cos I'm a writer under 25 XD

The first thing Castiel is confronted with just inside of the convention centre entrance; is some kind of wrestling routine between two mostly naked women in a children’s paddling pool.

It is…decidedly _not_ what Castiel thinks is appropriate in the foyer of a public space. Though the women seem to be enjoying themselves as much as they seem to be enjoying the attention from onlookers. Aside from the air-conditioned space inside, it is regretfully hot _outside_ , regretful for the way Castiel feels his light blue denim button down grow swampy at his pits. Regretful for he has no other shirt in his car outside of his uniform.

It is, hot, Castiel feels, increasingly so, a fact that is not helped by the two naked women he is having trouble ignoring in his periphery. Nor is it helped by the fact that since turning onto the exhibition street Castiel has developed the sickening gut feeling that he is somehow overdressed.

Standing off to the corner, back against the wall and close to the exit (entrance, Castiel thinks as hundreds of people find their way through) Castiel gets a good overview of the opening of the exhibition, not quite the exhibition floor itself but off from where two burly guards are checking ID’s and scanning tickets.

Working the Las Vegas Strip, Castiel is used to scantily clad. He is quite familiar with a whole range of dress and public behaviour but, without his belt, without his uniform in amongst the mass, Castiel feels off kilter.

Standing with his attention and eyes on the door, Castiel is at least a little bit surprised by just how he does feel. A sensation not quite as sharp as discomfort, nor something as easily explained away as awkwardness, but potent, almost paralysing.

“Feel the Future” Castiel has learnt from the promotional material in his “goodie bag”, seems to be the theme of this year’s exhibition. The main attractions seemed to be a mix of VR sexual experiences (which can be had on the main floor) and a ‘celebrity’ AI sex doll.

Castiel scans the document in his hand details facts about the scantily clad robot when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Castiel’s chest tightens even as he reaches inside, pulling out the device and swiping it open to reveal Dean’s message.

 

**10:01 AM**

> **Dean** SENT

         Outside in 5!

 

Castiel stows away the sudden rise of giddiness inside him, pocketing his phone as he makes for the exit. There’s a squeal followed by laughter and cheers as one of the wrestling women dunks the other in the kiddy pool. Castiel navigates through the twittering crowd, fingers closed tightly around his phone. There’s an undercurrent to his giddiness, apprehension… anxiety. Well, that is normal.

Even then, it had taken him a few days before he felt courageous enough to show up today. Castiel admits to being more nervous than ever since Dean’s devastating non-reply to his (too fast, too much, unwanted, goodness Castiel how could you think that was a good idea) message a few weeks ago.

It had taken Castiel weeks to build up to sending that seemingly innocent and now known un-welcome text the first time. Dean’s silence in return had stung more so than any other rejection Castiel has experienced to date. He admits, since his back peddling, the ground he and Dean had slowly been evening out between them seems brittle now. Prone to collapse.

In the days leading up to today’s excursion Castiel has completed an entire run through _Showgirls_ , almost two seasons of _Secret Diary of a Call Girl_ and the entirety of _Strip Tease_ , all in an attempt to perhaps learn more about Dean’s life that often gets shielded from him by his badge, a badge carefully tucked into the glovebox of his car. All in an attempt to understand Hannah’s vision and how they would even go about filming someone with Dean’s...proclivities? Occupation? Castiel is hesitant to call prostitution that, but he wants to understand and would be more comfortable knowing Hannah’s process in regards to all this. Castiel is nothing if not a man with a healthy respect for general process.

It’s research, Castiel rationalises to himself. All of this is necessary, this exposure shall remind him of their true relationship to one another, him and Dean—that being no relationship at all, aside from the potential of a burgeoning friendship. Everything Castiel has been watching in the last three days has only made it clearer to him that he can’t cross the boundaries that surround Dean again. Especially since Dean doesn’t want them crossed. He has made that clear.

He can’t let his own feelings continue to make Dean uncomfortable.

The exhibition is so expansive that it has spread to the steps outside of the centre.

Out here, the sun beats heavy down on the pavement. There is the slightest of breezes, the promise of a later cool change, but Castiel walks carefully down the front steps his arms held far from his sides hoping that some breeze flows through his pits. He is uncomfortable, even more so when two women in leashes (each holding onto the other) walk past, clad in shorts that are more underwear. They must be burning. Surely, they haven’t covered their entire bare bodies in sunblock. That would be incredibly tedious. Sticky.

Turning away Castiel finds a small shaded spot by the adjacent car park so he can people watch. There is a line of event attendees smoking cigarettes. Other attendees mill around, some have their dogs with them, or as Castiel finds blinking hard into the sunlight, partners dressed as dogs. Castiel pointedly looks away as one attendee passes, their…partner, dressed in dark leathers, a muzzle and with kneepads, crawling on all fours behind them. That… simply cannot be comfortable. Castiel chastises himself for staring. He slides his shades down his nose, aware of the sweat gathering at the bridge, and looks back out to the parking lot.

The cool change is just starting to pick up when a familiar black car with a rumbling engine pulls into the parking lot. A few other attendees loitering outside turn their heads. A group of young (too young, Castiel thinks privately) adults with cut up jeans and loose tank tops stop their chatter to stare.

From his advantageous position Castiel can see Dean get out of the driver’s side. There’s holes in the knees of his jeans, and he’s wearing a dark short sleeved Henley as opposed to his more favoured long sleeves and flannelettes. Despite the heat he has thick boots on.

Stepping back from _his baby_ , Dean flashes a grin to the nearest young lady watching him and slowly makes his way toward the centre a tray with two takeaway paper cups in his hand.

Castiel swallows the thumping in his throat back down into his chest. He kicks off from his shady spot, though, even as he does this, for a moment, a single moment he pauses.

Not for the first time since his and Dean’s relationship spilled from out of the Clark County walls, Castiel thinks he really should not be doing this.

Castiel should just ignore Dean and leave now. He should not be walking towards Dean, who has stopped now that he’s looking down at his phone. He most definitely shouldn’t reach out with one hand and tap Dean on the shoulder when he reaches him. Smiling at Dean as Dean starts at the touch, lifts his head to him.

Dean struggles with putting his phone back in his pocket one handed, balancing the two cups in the other. “You got here early.” He says, a smile in his voice. On his face. Brilliant and dimpling.

“Is one of those for me?” Castiel inclines he head to the cups. Dean lets out a relieved breath when Castiel takes the tray from him. Examining the scrawl on the outside of the cups. One coffee black, the other latte with soy.

Castiel’s usual order when Donna does a coffee run at work.

“Soy and no sugar right?” Dean asks, phone once more out of sight.

Castiel smiles in spite of himself. “You remembered.”

Castiel takes the cup from the tray, holding it between both palms. A blistering hot day, a blistering hot drink, but nothing is warmer than the pink hue to Dean’s cheeks. He shrugs one shoulder. Sunlight, Castiel tells himself, making the tips of his ears pink. Dean removes his shades. Green eyes gathering flecks of gold in the sun. Sweat sprinkling his forehead.

The sun casts golden light on Dean’s exposed arms, his wrists, his face. His freckles stand out. His eyes all but glow when he beams.

Castiel doesn’t often subscribe to the belief that human beings can be living works of art, but—shielding his eyes with his free hand then, paper cup scolding his other palm—the thought definitely crosses his mind.

“You want to head in?” Dean asks. When Castiel agrees Dean sets off.

Castiel follows behind a pace or two, his gaze unbidden, roving down Dean’s body. Dean walks bowlegged, a slight cocked lit to his hips. He is broad up top, tapering down to a narrow waist, oddly, unexpectedly curvy in tight fitting jeans. When Dean turns over his shoulder to flash a blazing grin on Castiel when he sees the wrestling women from earlier, Castiel considers himself doused in sunshine, despite being back inside.

There’s a slight awkwardness here that Castiel can’t help but over analyse. Jumping to the thought of this being a result of his texting debacle. If Castiel had not screwed up…would Dean be acting so? Or is this all in Castiel’s head? He swallows.

As they line up for entrance Dean takes a few deep sips from his coffee. “Heard it helps regulate your heat or something to drink hot drinks on a hot day.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow.

“Sweat or something.” Dean offers, and laughs a little raising one hand to rub at the back of his neck self-consciously. He shrugs. “I think. I dunno. Ha.” He laughs again. “Ignore me. Need more coffee.” And buries his face in his cup, holding it with both hands. He drinks deeply, uncomfortably, Castiel can tell by his wince and the evidence of sweat forming.

No, this isn’t in Castiel’s head. Dean’s feeling it too.

“How have you been, Dean?” Castiel asks. The line shuffles forward, and the both of them along with it.

Dean’s eyes widen a little, he swipes at his brow with the back of his hand. “Y’know you sound real sincere when you ask shit like that right?”

“I’m…sorry?”

“Don’t be.” Dean says, another, more measured sip. “It’s just most people ask how you’re going to be polite or something. Hearing it from someone who actually wants to know, it’s nice. Answering the questions someone actually wants to hear my answer.”

Castiel tries not to dig into that too much, some part of him flashing hot then itchy (though to be fair, he thinks as the line moves forward again, all of him is rather hot right now, and it’s not entirely because of the weather).

“I’m, good. Busy.” Dean says. He’s finished his coffee and as the path of the line passes by a trash can he throws his cup into it. Castiel takes a few final sips to finish his own off before discarding it. He actually does feel a little cooler, oddly, though perhaps that is just comparative perception.

“This doco stuff has been,” Dean pauses as though searching for an appropriate word. “Interesting.”

Interesting is a word that piques Castiel’s own interest. But he shoves that feeling down, unwilling to cross invisible lines.

“Will Mx Johnson be filming today?” he asks.

“Yeah, later. Said I wasn’t gonna be here around until three. I’m meeting some people here then too. So, y’know.” Dean smiles privately to himself, eyes meeting Castiel’s own. “We’ve got a little bit of time to ourselves before the kids come.” He nudges Castiel. Shoulder meeting shoulder for a brief, casual point of contact that zings through Castiel’s bloodstream. Enough that Dean’s words, and his next few filter entirely out of his attention.

“Pardon?”

Dean nudges him again, this time right at the moment that the line moves forward once more. They step up in near synchronicity, and moving close together pushes them closer together as the line bunches. Shoulder to shoulder.

Dean is a long line of heat by Castiel’s side.

“Said; what about you? How’s the old ball and chain,” asks Dean.

Castiel’s brows crinkle.

“Or belly chains. Y’know.” Dean prompts him with a look. “Work?”

Castiel flushes. “Oh! It has been…long,” he’s careful with his answer. Conscious of some sort of tightrope he is not even sure exists, stretching out over a chasm between the two of them. Dean on one side, Castiel himself on the other.

Discussing work in general is not a particular pastime Castiel deeply enjoys, preferring to keep his work _at_ work. Although, if he’s honest, there is not much in his life that _isn’t_ his work, so there is little he can talk about besides.

Castiel just prefers to listen to others speak.

“It has been tiring, recently,” he tries, keeping it vague. As much as he can talk about work without talking about work. Castiel hones into one recent point of interest. “Garth has returned from his honeymoon. He insisted on a sit in at his home to show us almost two _thousand_ photos. The majority being of his and his new wife’s bedroom.”

It had been truly agonising, and Castiel had not been the only Officer forced onto a small two person sofa in Garth’s small one bedroom to think it.

Dean smirks, though there’s an edge of confusion there. “Uh, Garth?”

Castiel stops short. Not completely, not physically. As the line narrows at the exhibition entrance he slots in behind Dean almost robotically, shuffles forward as the line shuffles forward, and inches past security when Dean flashes their tickets and gifts Castiel with a paper wristband.

All at once Castiel is inundated, the convention floor opening up. Shops, stalls, booths, photography stations, areas fenced off for panellists, a few stages, a few curtained booths.

There is just about every kind of person to be found walking amongst the rows (of which there are at least eight stretching all the way back to the far, far crowd filled wall of the convention centre), of booths, stalls and showcases. From those who have just come of age, all the way through to business types Castiel assumes, who have come down on their lunch break. There are more senior couples walking around hand in hand, and very little shyness all around, as one can imagine. All spectrums of class, creed, all across the rainbow spectrum.

“Cas?” Dean asks, a hand touches Castiel’s shoulder. A soft weight.

Castiel returns outside of himself, startling before straightening. “I’m sorry?”

 “Who’s Garth?” Dean asks, guiding them with his hand out from the single entrance.

Castiel doesn’t quite have enough presence of mind to sink into Dean’s touch.

“Uh, o-officer Fitzgerald,” he amends, an edge of reluctance creeping in. Reluctance he cannot quite explain. Dean’s expression clears with understanding, there’s something else there too that Dean hides away, some understanding on Castiel’s part that naming officer Fitzgerald in such a fashion irks something inside of him.

Dean snorts, taking an effortless turn on the conversation. His hand slips from Castiel’s shoulder. “You’re so antisocial,” he says.

Castiel straightens. “I’m not _anti_ social.”

“Well, you’re not fully social then.” Dean amends, heading off onto the convention floor.

Castiel loses him the slightest bit as he dodges brushing against a close by attendee, wearing nothing but a thong, greased up like a calendar model. Castiel flushes (blaming the heat) aware of Dean’s turning back to find him, a telling quirk to his mouth.

Castiel catches up to him so he can glare. “I just enjoy my own space. My own time sometimes.”

“Nothing wrong with that. There’s something to be said for having your own space.” Dean replies, stepping aside for a leather clad couple. Two rather hairy men, Dean watches them pass while Castiel watches him.

“Speaking of,“ Dean says after a moment, his attention returning. “Hannah said you signed some papers? To be a part of the doco.”

Initially, Castiel can gain no hint of emotion from Dean’s tone. But a spike of panic rises up in him.

“Did they?” he asks.

Dean nods. “When I asked if you could come today, they were pretty into it. Said all the necessary paperwork was already signed.” the look Dean casts him is sidelong as he heads down the first aisle. Cool almost, if his words weren’t so pointed.  

“I didn’t know you had a contract.”

“We all have a contract. At the County.” Castiel replies thinking on his feet. “They are probably just going off from those documents.”

“R-ight.” Dean says, in a way which lets Castiel know he does not believe him. He grins. “Keep your secrets.”

“I shall.” Castiel replies without thinking and Dean’s grin only widens. He reaches out and grabs Castiel’s elbow steering him out of the path of oncoming attendees, who, for the duration of Dean’s touch, melt from the edges of Castiel’s awareness.

Dean lets him go. “So, Cas.” he says, spreading both palms wide. “Whattaya wanna do first? What’cha get in your goodie bag.” Castiel is jerked a little as Dean plunges both hands into his tote back, pulling him off balance.

“Ah-ha!” Dean says pulling from the bag a string of cheap condoms. “Strawberry flavour.”

Castiel frowns. “Dean.”

“We can just walk aimless.” Dean says. “I have a couple of things I want to check out. Did you get the link I sent you?”

“No.” Castiel is honest. “I refrained. There were... _questionable_ keywords in the address.”

“This is _sexpo_ Castiel. Sex is _literally_ in the title.”

“You choose.” Castiel says, looking around the exhibition and pointedly away from Dean, as not to think too hard in his mind of what could possibly be of interest to Dean.

He looks and he spots a giant, flesh coloured...building? At the far end of the convention centre. Wait, not a building, a...

“What is that?” Castiel asks, stepping toward it.

Dean follows Castiel’s eye line and smirks. “Thought you might be a bit more familiar with a dick Cas.”

While Castiel glowers, Dean just barks out a laugh.  
  
“It’s the Shafter,” he answers. “it’s a _ride_.”

“A ride?”

“Oh, it’s a classic.” Dean enthuses. “Smells like jizz and sweat. It’s cramped and old and creaks. There’s duct tape holding it together I’m sure.” Even as he describes it, Dean leads them both toward it. “It’s a legend. Can’t have Sexpo without the Shafter.”

“Really? It sounds awful.”

“It’s probably the shittest ride in existence.” Dean agrees, and tugs Castiel along. “I love it. C’mon. Let’s have a go.”

Dean’s hands, are soft and warm and gentle.  Dean’s tongue peeks out between his pretty white teeth with his smile, and the way he looks at Castiel, has Castiel’s own stomach swooping.

“Didn’t you just say it was awful?”

“Yeah. Is.” Impala’s tongue peeks out between his pretty white teeth with his smile, and Castiel finds himself smiling back.

He makes his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching out and returning the touch. He stops himself even though Dean leans into him, Dean may...may blur barriers, platonically, Castiel is sure, Dean’s most recent rejection still stinging inside of him. But Castiel cannot. Will not. His hands stay by his sides. His fingers itch.

 

__________

 

Castiel is confused.

It is odd, he finds, how easily they fall back into something resembling near to the same routine they have always had. It happens so easily Castiel wonders if his previous blunders were even really blunders at all. Conversation between them comes a little smoother, Castiel’s enthusiasm having grown since stumbling out the other end of the Shafter, sweaty, a little embarrassed (the “ride” is just a giant penis, one must sit inside, watch four minutes of soft core porn on a horribly small and outdated screen whilst the receptacle around them shakes and jitters as though trying to launch) but hilariously giddy, for the way Dean over exaggerated his satisfaction come out the other side.  
  
“BEST RIDE EVER.” Dean had said to the forming line, a faux limp making Castiel cough a smile into his shoulder. “MAN I WON’T WALK RIGHT FOR A WEEK. HOW BOUT YOU CAS?” his voice was pitched higher, his shirt Castiel only noticed back in the daylight.

Dean turned then, kissed his hand and then pressed that hand against the beige painted side of the massive penis.

“Till next year handsome.”

“Dean,” Castiel, aware of the eyes on them, grabbed Dean and dragged him away, getting a few coos and laughs in response, which Dean ate up as though they nourished him.

Honestly Dean is ridiculous. Charming, but ridiculous all the same.

Dean sped them along to the next aisle, with shops and artwork to peruse, all of the booths displaying some form of sexuality or sexually explicit items. Clothing, Castiel finds, is what Dean is drawn to most, with no apparent discrimination. He is just as drawn attracted to tight latex, leather and silky lace as he is a simple worn ACDC shirt on display.

He touches each article with his fingers, as though each piece is only as good as how it feels in his hands rather than how it looks on a rack or a mannequin.

Castiel feels his own cheeks heating when Dean spent up to twenty minutes examining corsets, only to hold one up against his chest and ask Castiel if red was his colour (anything is his colour, but that is just Castiel’s own opinion).

As their perusal of the stalls and booths continued, Castiel found himself enjoying his time a lot more, the crowd drowning out to a low and close murmur. But with Dean, as it mostly does, his confusion grows.

After almost two hours walking the floor, they slide into the back seats of a panel; Dean sitting on one of his legs while Castiel sits straight backed his knees neatly in front of them. He is soon swept up in an amazing discussion of the future of robotics in sexuality, something Castiel has never really considered. Yet, after seeing one of the convention’s starring attractions, the AI “sex doll” Harmony, Castiel is immediately engrossed.

Slow, Dean’s knee presses against his own.

“See something you like?” He asks, speaking low into Castiel’s ear, both feet planted firmly on the ground now.

Castiel doesn’t look away from the stage. Can’t really, he is deeply impressed with this technology.  “It is quite a sophisticated and…” Castiel tilts his head to one side as one of the programmers on stage starts to undo Harmony’s clothing. “Anatomically-correct, piece of technology.”

“C’mon Cas, be a gentleman. She’s a lady.” Dean casts a crooked smile when a scantily clad audience participant is brought up on stage to test the “realistic attributes” of Harmony. The programmer places their hand on Harmony’s bare chest, the young person blushes furiously from their throat down their chest, up to their hairline.

“Controlled by an app too.” Dean hums, breath on Castiel’s cheek. One load bearing hand gripping the back of Castiel’s seat. “Bet she’s got nothing on the real thing though. Flesh and, y’know. Touch and heat.”

Castiel suddenly feels squirmy. He straightens, turning to look at Dean who is already looking back at him.

“All the juicy bits.” Dean reiterates, a quirk to his lips. “Can’t cook that up in a workshop, right?”

Castiel’s own lips twitch. “Juicy bits?”

He’s not quite sure what it is about his repetition but Dean flushes, straightening suddenly. Cheeks dusted with an attractive  ruddiness, he looks, beautiful in profile. Castiel finding himself caught in the other man, as he so often finds himself caught in Dean’s gravity, pulled in by a celestial body.

When Dean’s cheeks cool he offers to Castiel. “Fifteen hundred, though? Wow.” He whistles.

Harmony’s price. Castiel looks back to the stage. “I suppose you are considerably cheaper. Though perhaps not long term.”

Dean barks out a laugh only cutting it off when a gentleman in the row in front turns to tell him to be quiet.

The relief Castiel feels at having some of their usual banter back, some of the banter they engaged in the waiting hall of the Clark County Jail is almost breath stealing.

It is only outdone by having made Dean laugh.

They talk (quietly) through the next panel, only moving on when they get one too many scathing looks, Dean leads them out to a line of food trucks just outside the centre.

Dean likes classic rock. He likes engaging with objects, fixing things, working, and speaking with his hands. He likes fried potato on a stick even if it is before lunch and once back inside, he insists on reading passages of cheesy erotic novels out loud and offering commentary. He is loud, he is brash, he is masculine to a near detrimental degree, he is feminine in much the same way. He is walking contradiction. He talks about Star Trek more than anyone Castiel’s ever met, and outright squeals when he sees, what Castiel is told is a, “sexy Spock cosplay”.

In addition to the stalls and main panel area there are booths offering in depth seminars into a whole variety of things, covering topics ranging from BDSM to tantra to asexuality (a spectrum itself Castiel learns) and other diverse identities. One booth offers intimacy and relationship counselling, another fetish demonstrations. One thing after the other; international performers, promises of stage acts from a variety of gender and sexually diverse peoples.

Castiel is surrounded on all sides by sex and it is a little hard, no pun intended, to ignore the near erotic sometimes sexual atmosphere such displays conjure. Castiel himself, though walking calmly, fully dressed, with no real intention nor desire for “release” in any sense of the word, feels like a well stoked fire, left to burn to smouldering coals. He is only a sexual human after all. And the low undercurrent of heat isn’t helped by either the actual heat in this crowded space or by Dean.

Dean, who is perfectly at ease with his surroundings. Whose cologne (perfume?) has the gentlest of floral undercurrents, which Castiel feels a little spark from breathing in when they stand shoulder to shoulder.

“You see that?” Dean leans in close and points to a stall across the aisle. Castiel follows his finger finding a--rather simple black sign with goal writing.

 

**FINEST FANCIES**

 

Castiel feels his eyebrows disappear into his hairline. Dean, with a smirk, heads over.

“Check these out.” he says. He is engrossed in the nearest display case, which Castiel comes to see is filled with butt plugs. Butt plugs encased in a security sealed glass case, displayed ornately. Crystals adorning the flared base, in some cases stoned onto the plug itself.

That Dean is interested in crystal encrusted butt plugs is… the coals in Castiel pressurize into pearls. Arousal feeling like a lungful of fresh air.

He walks alongside the booth, away from Dean but not obviously enough to be of note. There is no “situation”, but Castiel feels his blood thrumming. As though a single accidental brush could catch him alight. Turned from Dean, his eyes catch onto a small sign that reads “light reflecting for gorgeous sparkles” another saying “temperature responsive”. Though his attention is most fixed upon “$127”. That much money, for something so small.

They’re approached by the booths attendant. “One hundred percent genuine Swarovski crystals.” the woman says, eager to inform.

“This is…” too much, Castiel considers. Ridiculous, is another word that comes to mind, but it seems indelicate in front of the booths attendant, and it seems like some sort of twisted semi-sick fantasy to be discussing the price of ordained sex toys in front of Dean.

Dean taps his long fingers on the glass. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen a butt plug before, man.”

Castiel fixes what he hopes is a dry expression to his features. “I’ve seen things, Dean, that would keep you up at night.” The woman, seemingly coming to know she will not get a sale out of either of them, turns her attention to a different customer across the way. Castiel’s isn’t sad to see her go.

Dean casts him an equally challenging glance. He effectively parries; “You ever seen a sixty year old man’s prolapsed asshole?”

Castiel recoils so hard that he almost falls into the nearest display case. His sweaty palm slaps against the glass, making a hideous squelch and squeak. Eyes turn their way, the attendant frowns, Castiel flushes, jerking upright and hissing: “Jesus, Dean!”

Dean’s eyes are alight with obvious amusement, though he follows Castiel’s path away from the booth. “What? We’re both men of certain tastes, we’re adults, we know sometimes shit happens.” he thinks for a moment. “Sometimes shit _literally happens_.”

Castiel shoves his hands into his slacks. “You’re intolerable.”

“You love it.”

There is no proper retort to that, so Castiel doesn’t bother to make one, he moves onto the next booth, aware faintly of the crowd growing denser, but more acutely aware of Dean following him. It isn’t until the crowd grows too dense to move freely that he looks up, trying to see what the issue is.

He sees a familiar face, and for the second time in five minutes physically recoils, entire body thrumming (not unpleasantly).

“Woah, Blue eyes.” Dean says, Castiel isn’t sure if the old street moniker is an accident or an attempt to tease Castiel more, but it does have that effect. “You’re jumpy as hell, what is it?”

Gathering himself, and after taking several deep breaths, Castiel points to the large display, and double booth space set up with cameras, lights, some merchandise and a long line for people waiting. A long line Castiel bumped into.

“Chastity is here.”

Dean noticeably shifts at the mention of the popular adult entertainer. Though less than an inch taller than Castiel he moves up in the line and stands on the tips of his toes for a second to see up and over the crowded line. Once satisfied, he comes back down.

“Why Castiel Montgomery Novak--”

“That’s not my middle name.”

“Castiel Montgomery Novak. You sly dog.” Dean’s eyes roam over him, considering, he tucks his tongue behind his teeth on his next smile. “You watch porn.”

Castiel huffs to hide any embarrassment threatening to bloom. “Of course I do.”

Dean’s answering smirk is entirely childish and not _at all_ bewitching.

Castiel may be confused but he is not obtuse. Flirting, all this has been flirting. This was flirting. Cas knew it, and he enjoyed it once though those days of seeing Dean through the process, catching him out on the Strip feel like an entire different monster now. This, at least, feels almost like comfortable ground. All too easy to respond to, now that he can.

Now that there isn’t a badge weighing down his chest.

The confusion comes from _does Dean mean it?_

How can Castiel determine the validity of flirtations from a man who offers them freely to most, charging for others. How can Castiel conclude that these quips and jokes are meant in honest interest, when Dean seems to spend the majority of his days feigning interest in others for money.

Is flirtation a natural part of Dean’s personality? Castiel believed that once.

Now he is…confused.

Dean himself seems disinclined to answer upfront. He quips: “So, what’s your flavour?”

It takes Castiel a moment to realise Dean is asking him about his personal fantasies, his adult entertainment preferences. “I am _not_ discussing this with you.”

“C’mon, Cas. I’ll tell you mine.” Dean bats his eyes in a playful manner, but one Castiel misses almost entirely, the thought of learning _Dean’s_ preferences, perhaps what brings him pleasure. Perhaps what he brings himself pleasure _too_ …oh. It is almost too overwhelming. Whatever coals inside Castiel that are now pearls flare up into diamonds.

Dean laughs, and Castiel shies from his own obviousness, brought to Dean’s attention by his slackened expression and intense silence. Dean sniggers and then reaches out. “Here, I’ll show you.”

He says this while taking Castiel’s hand.

It’s a simple gesture, but it occurs to Castiel with surprising clarity that it’s the first time they’ve ever held hands. The first lingering touch, outside of detainment. It burns him.

Dean guides him through the convention floor, bypassing several aisles they have yet had the chance to explore. Dean takes him to the far right of the centre where some more obscure and less ‘produced’ stalls and booths lay. Castiel’s mind lingers on the feeling of Dean’s fingers curling against his own for a long time after Dean lets him go and steps up to the near-empty stall, aside from its one attendant.

The booth is titled **Unpacking Consent**

 “Nothing sexier than consent.” Dean says, fixing Castiel with a look, Castiel feels in some other universe, on some other planet, would only be permissible within the bedroom.

After some time, the attendant clears her throat.

“Hiya!” she is rather young, Castiel pushes down the instinct to question her, following suit when Dean turns his attention to her, stepping up close. Her single table is stacked high with pamphlets, papers, one petition Castiel doesn’t look too closely at, and a jar of condoms beside an unnervingly similar jar of sweets.

She pushes a swath of dyed green hair out of her eyes. “Would you be interested in signing up?” she asks them both gesturing to the clipboard with several pages of names already written. “We’re actually having a demonstration in October? If you’re interested. We’re partnering with SWOPUSA.” she searches for recognition between Dean and Castiel, which she seems to get on Dean’s end. Castiel--somewhat resentful for the interruption, only half listens.

Consent...Dean...is Dean trying to tell him something?

“—like, did you know that sex workers in the US face near unending police brutality and harassment? And our most recent studies show that 80 percent of street-based sex workers had...” she reads directly from the page in front of her here. “Experiences or been threatened with violence while working? Including sexual harassment by arresting officers.”

Castiel snaps to full attention. All arousal flushed out. Diamonds and pearls shattered and crushed.

Cold dread replaces everything else.

The girl continues, fiddling with her septum piercing. “and when those workers were asked about reporting violence to the police, they responded that the police “did not take their complaints seriously—”

Castiel feels genuinely sick. Keenly aware of the stiffened line of Dean’s shoulders beside him. All easiness gone from his features.

“-and often officers told them that they should expect the violence--”

 “I’m already coming to the demo.” Dean cuts in with an unflinching, unaffected smile. His tone however is curt and sharp, like shattered glass that glints in the sunlight, still beautiful. “Thanks. I’ll grab a couple more of those for friends if I can, though.”

The girl gathers up her pamphlets. “Really? Great!” she thrusts far more than a couple out to Dean, who takes them graciously. She then offers some more to Castiel.

“Already got him one too.” Dean says. “Thanks.”  
  
“Thank you! We’d love to see you at the demonstration!”

“Count on it.”

Castiel feels Dean’s hand reach down to touch his elbow. He feels his fingers slide down towards his own hand, encircling his wrist. Pulling his hand from his pocket before plucking his fingers from their bone crushing curl. Warm palm suddenly against warm palm. Fingers interlocked.

Then, he is being guided away, back across the show floor. Though Castiel’s mind is far from retreating—in fact it is _racing_ ahead. Between Dean’s reaction (or non-reaction) to Castiel’s tentative signoff last week, to his emphasis on consent, and that triad now…

Is Dean trying to send him a message? That their interactions thus far have been… god… non-consensual?

Like a horror reel from an old film strip, Castiel’s mind plays:

Every slight indiscretion. Every slightly too long look. Every touch, every word. Every comment.

His stomach clunks down into his knees, making it suddenly impossible for him to move his feet. He’s rooted to the spot. He is disgusted, _disgusting_. Every moment of being in Dean’s presence over the last three years plays on in his mind in terrible, awful full HD quality. Brilliantly lit.

“Cas?” Dean asks. His face, crinkled in concern swims into Castiel’s vision. “You’re pale. You okay?”

Dean’s hand squeezes his.

“I-I’m sorry.” Castiel croaks, pulling back from the hold, suddenly needing his own space, suddenly feeling incredibly small and exposed. A blur comes into the corners of his vision, he blinks it away, swallowing thickly.

Everything is suddenly very bright and very loud.

Dean, just realising that Castiel has withdrawn from him, turns. “What—Cas? You’re sorry?”

Sorry? No, not _just_ sorry. _Sorry_ feels entirely too inaccurate in Castiel’s throat. Everything he has done, or even entertained of doing at some point, coming into sharp clarity.

“I am _so sorry_.”

He remembers acutely his belt bumping against Dean’s back. His hands sliding over Dean’s body. Up his spine, over his shoulder blades. His fingers touching Dean’s neck, over his pulse point, want to just tilt him, just the slightest bit, and press their lips together, but instead brushing his lips to Dean’s jugular. He remembers sweat slick hands, his own, up under Dean’s shirt. He remembers wanting to bury himself inside Dean, into some warm and safe haven that consisted of just the two of them. Not out in full view of any patron on the Strip. Something private. _Intimate_.

What was once a titillating, exciting encounter has now been painted in harsher, cruel lines.

“I’m sorry Dean I’m--”

Castiel realises all in a rush that they have moved from where they once were. No longer on the convention floor, no longer in Sexpo at all, Dean has somehow led Castiel outside and is standing over him, the sun behind him causing a brilliant halo.

An avenging angel, uprooting worlds.

Castiel honestly might feel sick. He is seated out on the front steps and finds opportune moment to push his head down between his knees.

No not now, he thinks. Remember, breathe. In...out...in.

“Cas? You’re scaring me.”

In…

“I’ll-- I’ll get you s-some water. Okay?”

Castiel finds the strength to nod, and with Dean no longer in front of him he faces the full brunt force of the midday sun alone.

A part of him hopes he burns.

He has no idea how long Dean is gone for, but when he returns he’s holding two bottles of water, one he extends to Castiel.

“Drink.”

Undeserving, but selfish (self entitled, self serving) and parched, Castiel does. Greedily.

Above the sun burns hot, but no more scorching than Castiel’s own shame.

After a minute of quiet pulls from his bottle. Castel becomes aware of Dean speaking.

“I’m sorry that freaked you out.” He is saying. A silence, only a beat, before he shifts to come sit on the steps beside Castiel. “I didn’t think—that stuff doesn’t, y’know. That doesn’t mean _you,_ Cas. You’re one of the good ones.”

Castiel shakes his head. What good is intention if the result is still the same? Still harmful. Dangerous?

“I’m not gonna say that what she said isn’t true.” Dean says carefully. “That this, these issues don’t need addressing or, or aren’t important. But I’m telling you Cas, Castiel. You’re not one of those guys. One of those cops. Anything we did or almost did, ever. Any look, any little comment, I wanted it.”

Dean’s admittance leaves a sudden sour taste in the back of Castiel’s throat.

“It doesn’t matter Dean,” Castiel says lifting his head. He can’t look at Dean, but can tell the other man is frowning, vehemently disagreeing. Castiel cuts off his retort. “You can’t give consent under duress.”

Dean flinches.

“You cannot give consent while I am _arresting you._ ”

“We didn’t even do anything.”

I wanted to. Castiel thinks but doesn’t say allowed. He takes another pull from his bottle. I would have if you had let me.

But how could Dean have let him, when Castiel held Dean’s freedom and safety in his hands.

A freedom and safety he obviously didn’t care about, having not thought upon them with any real consideration until now.

“While you are under my care in any capacity. What I did was...wrong.”

“I’m not under your care now!” Dean blurts, but Castiel barely hears him, lost, swirling in his own thoughts. And then he realises by doing this, he is centring _his_ own thoughts and feelings over Dean’s.

Over the _victim_.

Castiel collapses. Head aiming to fall back between his knees but instead smacking into them. Painfully.

“Jesus Cas!”

“I’m fine.” Castiel presses squeezing his eyes shut. “This...happens. I just need a moment.”

A moment which Dean silently gives him. One, then two. But the time Castiel has lost count he has been given more than enough moments to collect himself. Shame keeps his head down, embarrassment. Guilt.

Dean claps hands to his thighs and pushes up from the steps. “Alright. Enough. Cut the shit, Castiel. Get up here.”

Adrift, Castiel raises his head to look up at Dean, he doesn’t get up, but then, Dean’s demand seemed more metaphorical than literal.

“Stop this self-loathing crap. You made mistakes, okay? Maybe you didn’t act with one hundred percent proper conduct. But you have never, not once, done something I didn’t want done to me. Capiche?”

“I arrested you.”

“I wasn’t exactly trying to run in the opposite direction Cas. Fuck I pretty much ran right to you most nights because,” Dean falters, but picks himself back up quickly. “Cause it was kinda sexy alright? What we were, what we _both_ wanted to do.”  
  
Castiel swallows thickly, undeterred Dean presses on.

“I didn’t exactly grind up on ever cop who ever gave me a pat own alright? And I—I didn’t even really work much out there. Didn’t need to, not anymore but it was the only way I could—I dunno get close to you? You’re so impenetrable sometimes man, intimidating as fuck, I don’t know how to get on your level. Get you to notice me.”

Dean laughs void of emotion. “Brings a whole new meaning to ‘attention whore’ doesn’t it?”

“Dean,” Castiel replies sadly, “I—”

“How about you let me be the judge on when and how and to whom I give my consent to? I’m telling you, so you gotta,” Dean struggles for the what to say for a moment. “You gotta take me on my word on this and _listen_ to _me_ , alright? For once, someone else’s just gonna _listen_.”

“Yes.” Mechanically Castiel’s hand reaches for him and Dean doesn’t take it. Instead, he crouches down once more, a few steps below Castiel this time. The positioning after everything is a little uncomfortable, Castiel wants to move down another step but suddenly finds even the effort of moving too much.

“Dean, I’m listening.”

“Good.” Dean says simply. A minute passes. He harrumphs. “Now, I’ve kinda ahh, done my whole bit. Shot my load and shit. Haven’t got much to say, right now. Damn.”

Castiel’s laugh is a weak brittle thing. He hasn’t had an attack like this since beginning his new medication.

After a pause that seems to stretch on forever, of Dean just sitting there, looking up at him. Castiel tries to explain: “I am sorry. I just—I feel terribly confused. I want us to be friends, Dean. I really do and I just—”

“It’s a lot.” Dean agrees. “Not everyone I hang out with takes the whole sex worker thing well. And most of them don’t have the y’know, inner conflict or whatever of also doing what you do.”

Castiel nods. Despite the water in his hand and that he has already swallowed, his throat is desert dry.

“Truth’s hard to hear sometimes. The big real things are scary I get it.” Dean goes on, he reaches out and squeezes Castiel’s knee.

Tactile, Castiel thinks, tactile is a word that until today Castiel would not have associated Dean Winchester with, but now all he can see it it’s marvel.

Dean asks him; “Do you want to, talk? About this?”

The way Dean moves to come sit beside him, pressed lengthways against him, knee, thigh to shoulder lends Castiel to believe he might mean “us” instead of “this”.

But of course, that is his own selfish projecting. Must be. Castiel cannot be trusted to have an objective viewpoint of this relationship anymore. He is overwhelmed by too many contributing factors, by his own wishful thinking.

The idea of talking to Dean about his own desire for something…more than what they currently have is paralysing. Castiel head tilts down giving a small, quick shake. No.

“Then consider all forgotten and forgiven.” Dean insists patting him on the thigh before shifting away. “We’re starting anew remember?”  He stands. “Now, you wanna see if the line to Chastity’s booth has shortened a bit? We can get you a cute photo?” He does something silly with his brows.

Castiel lets out a wobbly chuckle that he hopes isn’t as wet as it feels. “You seem determined to embarrass me.” He murmurs.

“What I am is _determined_ to fulfil twelve-year-old Castiel’s wet dreams.” Dean blinks after having said that, hearing for the first time how his idea sounds. “You know what? That was gross.”

Castiel agrees, his laugh exhausted, but a little less wobbly. “Y-yes. Please, don’t talk about eliciting sexual arousal—”

“—In twelve-year-old you, or anyone. Yep, yep. Didn’t think I had a line, but I found it.”

Dean extends one hand down to help Castiel up from the step. He takes it, a little self-conscious a little ashamed for the shaking of his legs, but if Dean notices he doesn’t say anything. He bumps Castiel once before stealing the last dregs of water from his bottle.

“Excuse you.”

“Hey, I brought this.” Dean says. “Buyers keepers.”

Castiel tries not to think too hard about that.

If this goes to hell, if he ruins them, he will do everything in his power with his will, to ensure no repercussions reach Dean. That he is given no time, that he endures no harassment. Feeling raw under Dean’s soft smile as they head back inside, back into the shade, Castiel promises he will protect Dean Winchester. Even if it is from his own team, his own patrol. Even if it is from himself, not a single officer will even side glance Dean Winchester from now on.

He is wrecked through, he has done and messed up and done again all he can in regard to this friendship they are developing. He resolves in the same breath of his protection oath, to wait for Dean to make the next move.

And be utterly content if Dean makes none at all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts, especially on this chapter as I know there's a lot in here for people to read and think about <3
> 
> unedited, unbetaed, unread as always
> 
> Sorry for any super jarring mistakes, my wisdom teeth are currently coming through and it is a pain most distracting


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jail: Las Vegas Season 4 Episode 12 pt 1
> 
> Jail Las Vegas has exclusive access, as officers on the street and in the jail brace for the arrests and the aftermath of out-of-control revelers during the City's infamous Fight Night festivities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said not to expect an update for awhile but I couldn't NOT post something on Valentines Day, a day where this tired aromantic could do with some comments ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Happy Valentines Day Readers and Friends <3

At first it didn’t register with Victor.

Novak’s fixation on a certain bow-legged prostitute wasn’t something that Victor consciously noticed over the years. If Winchester’s name crept up in conversation a little more than what would be expected than Victor was none the wiser.

When Novak started being not only the only one to move Winchester through the process efficiently and effectively, but began being the only one to _ever_ stumble across Winchester out on the Strip at all, Victor didn’t really consider it something worthy of note. At first.

He thinks he would have paid more attention, would have caught onto things sooner perhaps. Being able to bring up Novak’s affection before it begun to affect his work, _before_ it became something actively worrying.

Victor’s convinced he would’ve been able to do it, if it weren’t for the fucking talking heads.

 

_________________

 

_After arrest and before trial comes jail_

_All suspects are innocent until proven guilty in a court of law_

 

_________________

 

Victor Hendrickson does not have time for this shit.

Working in law enforcement, means that Victor has to make time for _a lot_ of shit, but not for this.

“Do you mind Officer Hendrickson, just repeating that for us again?” Mx Johnson asks, standing behind their camera man, lifting their eyes up from the recording to look at Victor. “We want another take for voiceover.”

Victor thinks about telling them that a _jailhouse_ is hardly _appropriate_ for quality voiceover, but he refrains. Instead his final nerves pricked by a different thorn.

“That’s _Sergeant_ Hendrickson.” Victor corrects. Johnson’s face pinches, their lips pressing tightly together in a firm line, and while Victor feels similarly, he does what is asked of him, though with little enthusiasm.

“Most people think that we like to use force to accomplish our goals, and the truth is if we have a hostile person come in, we like to try and talk them through the process. We like to avoid force, avoid protective measures such as holding chairs, as much as possible.”

Johnson ducks down behind their cameraman again, as though trying to peer at his film before he has even finished taking it. They whisper something to him, and he lifts one thumb up in reply. Johnson nods to Hendrickson to finish.

“The best day we have is when we don’t have to use force in any situation.” Victor says, though his attention wanes. He is keenly aware of everything around him, the Clark County detention is alive with activity, at least thirty detainees working their way through the process, fourteen more in waiting. He has eleven Officers on booking duty tonight, two nurses and five other Officers out on patrol.

He’s expecting a big one tonight, Fight Night, Gunner Lawless VS the Velvet Thunder in a comeback match. Fight nights are always out of control with public indecencies, inebriation and drug use. Abundant with solicitation and trespassing, in his sixteen years as a part of the force, Victor would hazard that fight nights almost –especially fight nights staring big names like Gunner Lawless and Thunder—give them more hassle and chaos than nearly every other event. Aside from Patty’s Day and New Year’s.

Taken aside into an empty white hallway, Victor feels tense and itchy, hearing, but not being able to see the ruckus of the Clark County processing room. Before Johnson and crew pulled him aside for another bloody talking head, he had been attending to an inebriated John Doe, having to leave the detainee with Donahue to film this damn thing. Donahue, who Victor is convinced, must know someone in the higher up or lower government, because how did he graduate again? Incompetent shit.

Johnson is saying something to their camera man, and Victor figures he is no longer needed.

“There. You got that?” Johnson looks up at him, dark brows knitted behind their ruler straight fringe. “Can I go back to my _job_ now?”

“That was great. Thank you, _Sergeant_.”

Victor elects to ignore their pointed tone, spinning on his heel and heading back out to the chaos of bookings.

 

_________________

 

“Is Novak on his phone?” Victor asks disapprovingly.

“Go easy on him Vic. He’s tired.” Donna says and tries not to look across the waiting room to where Novak is currently stationed, Johnson and her boys hovering nearby. Victor can see seated at the booking desk, Novak’s trying to be subtle, but it is all painfully unsubtle, so unsubtle that Hendrickson throws out an order for the next detainee to step up to be processed. It jerks Novak from his phone, which he slides under the desk.

Okay so maybe Victor spoke a little louder than strictly necessary.

Donna lowers her voice as the detainee approaches. “You’re acting like we all haven’t taken our phones out on shift before.”

“You have?” Victor demands and Donna pretends to zip her lips, her expression smug. Victor rolls his eyes.

“I could confiscate it from him,” he tells her.

“He’s not a child. He just needs a break.”

Victor doesn’t know what she’s the one lowballing it now, when she was the one who started pressing him in the first place about Novak. Asking Victor to look out for him, as he seemed...down, these last few weeks.

Victor admits recently he’s been a little worried about Castiel Novak too, but apparently Donna isn’t worried _tonight_ and therefore Victor shouldn’t be _ever_ , and Novak just needs to pull that stick out of his ass or whatever and take a break.

Or put a _stick in._

Victor huffs at his own little joke. Donna throws him a curious look but doesn’t get the chance to ask before the detainee’s stumbling up to them. DUI. Perfect. Victor rifles through the nights detainees in his head, nearing on thirty now, they had several DUI’s brought in, one public urination.

Victor eyes the detainees Clark County Issue track pants. He thinks they have the latter.

“McMillian, get on up.”

Donna takes one side of McMillian, encircling his arm in hers. Victor takes the other, McMillian’s belly chains slapping against his hip.

“We’re all tired.” He says to Donna. “We _all_ need a break.”

McMillian grumbles as they lead him through, though Donna calms him down. Victor does admire how good she is with the detainees. With the inmates. Donna’s sunny disposition in the majority of cases is pleasant enough, or even catches enough inmates off guard, that it leads to smoother processing, and even amicable detainees.

They place McMillian against the near periwinkle backdrop, shifting him into position in the painted white square on the floor.

“Turn and face me.” Donna instructs, McMillian sluggishly turns. Victor steps back to man the camera.

“You know Castiel’s the only one of us who never takes his breaks, let alone his leave.” Donna says, coming in close to him. McMillian, swaying as he is, is only just in the correct position. Donna instructs him to turn so his profile faces them.

“There’s plenty of people here to talk to.” Victor grumbles. “Doesn’t need to do it on his damn phone.”

“He hasn’t exactly been talkative the last few weeks, ever since...” she stops part way through, as though unsure herself of which way she was going.

“Since,” Victor works the thought around in his head for a long while, waiting for his screen to load. Castiel and, loneliness, really anything quite so _human_ as that, is something of a foreign thought to him. He glances briefly to the left, back out to the waiting room, to the right, toward the cells, before asking. “Wifey disappeared off the Strip?”

Donna flushes. “D—Winchester. Yes.” She turns from him, stepping up to McMillian and reaching for his arm. Victor sends off the newly taken image for attachment to McMillian’s paperwork (lets be real, he has an extensive record), before joining her on bringing him through.

“You have to admit,” Donna says a little quieter as they lead McMillian down the hall. “They did lighten this place up a bit together.”

It strikes Victor that that’s quite an odd way to put it. He goes to reply but McMillian suddenly lurching in his hold cuts him off.

“Oof.” Donna says, moving with McMillian, she straightens and tightens her grip. Though she speaks to McMillian, she exchanges a look with Victor. He catches on quick and shifts their route, diverting from the process, and heading down the right hall.

“C’mon now Mr McMillian, we can walk, now can’t we?”

The senior man is heavy in Victor’s arms, dragging his feet, his chin low on his chest. The hallway is narrow, and Victor laments the cords strewn across the floor. Victor stutters a step, boot catching on the thickest.

“ _Shit!_ ”

“Woah there sir!” Donna exclaims, covering her own amusement with a half-smile. “You alright?”

McMillian, slow on the uptake, let’s out an amused burble.

“These fucken cords.” Victor sees up ahead one of Johnson’s boys. Tightening his grip on the now rising McMillian, Victor throws out; “Pick these up for fucks sake.”

The boy’s—because really that’s all he can be called, a boy—eyes widen comically. He stutters something, looking half-drunk himself and rushes out of the hallway back through the door he came in by.

Donna scolds him. “Be nice.”

“Fucken children. All of them.”

“They won’t be here much longer.” Donna reminds. Dual amount of attention on the detainee in her grip and on the floor beneath her. “I don’t think there will be much love lost on either side when they’re done filming.”

“You know marijuana is a natural aphrodisiac?” McMillian slurs from between them.

Donna’s voice brightens politely. “Really? I didn’t know that!”

Victor looks at Donna over the top of their detainee’s head. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Let’s go just get you somewhere more comfortable.” Donna tells McMillian. Victor stops when they reach the last cell on the right.  He shifts to accommodate McMillian’s full weight when, Donna moves to open the cell.

“In this country,” rambles McMillian. “If you make, uh, make marijuana legal and we tax it—you would pay off the national debt.”

Donna hums in time with the cell door sliding. “That’s interesting.”

Victor shifts McMillian’s weight. “C’mon sir. Let’s get you comfortable in here.” Donna come to his side for the assist, and together they set McMillian inside, before closing the cell door behind them.

 

_________________

 

Donna’s comments see Victor paying more attention to his fellow officer more than normal.

Under general supervision, Novak seems to be proceeding as normal. Victor watched him process and file paperwork which accompanies the incarceration or release of arrestees. He spots Novak processing bail bonds and fines; switching off from Tran when the books start to overwhelm.

Novak takes to the waiting room in much the same way he always does. With the surveying, distant eye of a bird of prey. It isn’t until, closing in on one AM, that they get a new batch of perps in, that Victor notices anything concerning.

It starts with the girls.

“Have you had any alcohol today?” Victor overhears Novak ask, only faintly, it’s a normal inquest, nothing of any real interest. But the way Novak takes his detainees arm in his own, leading her from the front desk to seating area, is unusually slow.

Victor, keeping his clipboard in front of him, and his attention mostly on the room around them, watches.

The woman shakes her head. Novak presses, still gently.

“Any spirits, any beer?”

The woman sniffs. Eyes rimmed red. She had been crying earlier, Victor remembers, but seems to have calmed down now. “Is champagne a beer?”

“It is alcohol.” Novak answers. He helps lower the woman into her seat. Second from the front.

“Umm, yes. One. Then.”

“One, bottle? One glass?”

“One champagne.”

Victor can see the information tick over in Novak’s mind. After he gets the woman situated, instead of dismissing himself to continue on, he hovers a little awkwardly over the woman, before kneeling before her, so he can look up into her tear-stained face.

“Can I get you some water?” he asks, low enough that Victor almost doesn’t hear him.

When the woman shifts her belly chains rattle, she draws herself in close, skimpy clothing doing little to save her from the general chill of the room. She scrunches in on herself, almost as if she’s trying to hide.

“I’m fine—”

“I have come to know,” Novak interrupts softly. “That those two words are the most frequently told lie in the English language.”

The woman sniffs wetly. “Ouch.”

Novak is facing away from him, so Victor can’t see his expression, but it eases the woman. Who unfurls a little from hugging herself.

“It’s a hard thing to admit.” Novak goes on. He straightens, getting up from his crouch. “It is no trouble. You need to keep your fluids up, it will assist with the hangover.”

“You’re very nice.”

Novak shifts his stance, his posture growing progressively less impeccable, the lines of his face gentling. “Thank you.”

“Pretty too,” The woman laughs wetly. “Blue Eyes, they told me about you.” And then she points, turning in her chair to the row of three women— _prostitutes,_ up the back. Candice, Stephanie and June. Regulars. When they notice Novak glancing toward them, Candice, in the middle, coos, and gives a little wave.

The two…harpies on either side of her laugh, and each offer Novak their own greetings.

“Ladies,” Novak scolds and they quieten, but Victor’s interest is pricked by the fact that even though Novak’s response is terse, it has an underlying note of long-suffering amusement.

He directs that amusement next to the detainee. “You should not believe everything you hear.” He tells her.

“C’mon Blue Eyes, you know we’re reliable!” cat-calls June. “Dean’ll vouch for us!”

“Yeah, Dean loves us.”

“That’s not _all_ he loves!” calls Stephanie. The other two squeal, delighted. A few surrounding detainees look over, some regulars smile themselves.

“You seen him lately Blue eyes?”

“We miss him!”

“He was always good for a carpool.”

“In that _sexy_ car of his.”

They twitter.

“Be that as it may,” Novak replies steadily, avoiding all questions. “We are quiet in here. Aren’t we ladies?”

The three women giggle. June, Novak’s admonishment having little effect, replies ‘Yes sir’ which gets the whole back row twittering. June, Stephanie, and Candice cackle.

“They told me you were the nice one.” The first woman enthuses, smiling up at Novak a little. She turns more fully in her seat to address the three prostitutes. “He’s the nice one, right?”

Victor feels it before him, the slow untethering of the room’s obedience. Placing his clipboard down on Nancy’s desk, he straightens, making his presence known by stepping out from the side-lines. “Alright now. Quieten down!”

The order is perhaps harsher, louder than he meant it. Cutting across the rising noise, the first five rows all jerk into sudden alertness, silence descending. Novak turns his head, lips pursed, he straightens imperceptibly. Victor comes forward, shooting a harsh eye to the prostitute’s row.

“Quiet now.” He repeats, before fixing his attention to Novak. “We need eyes on side cell C.”

Novak nods, stepping back from the woman. As he does so, she looks up at him, inebriated as she is, her voice is a mock whisper: “They told me that one was an assho—“

Novak cuts in. “I’ll get you your water Melanie.” He turns, addresses Victor. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

The thing about Novak is that his gaze is arresting. His eyes cold and calculating.

Victor nods, stepping back, he makes a call for Tran to take over the booking, and feels Novak’s attention leave him as he returns to Nancy’s desk.

 

_________

 

Victor finds Novak later. What is surprising is that he finds Novak on his phone again, leaning hard against the wall, eyes intent on the screen while one side of his mouth is kicked up in a, what Victor recognises with a little surprise is, a half-smile.

Victor announces his presence by clearing his throat, and with deft fingers Novak pockets his phone, as though pretending he never held it.

Victor decides to pick his battles.

“You were chatty earlier.” He says to Novak, after a beat of silently watching him straighten his uniform and return to work, looking  over weeks old booking papers, as though they somehow might be the key to some big mystery.

Novak looks up at the sound of Victor’s voice. Wide blue eyes study Victor, and briefly Victor is caught in thinking of Novak as less otherworldly than he normally does.

Novak, has always been something of an oddity to Victor, impenetrable almost. Distant. Though they spend the majority of their time with each other, Victor knows next to nothing about the other man. They’ve always straddled that line of “work friend” the occasional group drink outside of the Jailhouse, and simple colleague. While the likes of Donna, Garth and even Jody seem to have no trouble passing that boundary—Victor and Novak when left to themselves, find little beyond work to grasp at.

Still, Victor clears his throat, straightens, and meets Novak eye to eye—this is no time for parsing out his and Novak’s tenuous friendship.

“Pardon?”

“Earlier,” Victor explains. “You in a good mood or something?”

Novak blinks. “Tonight is Melanie’s first time in custody. She is inebriated but stable. She’ll survive,” he explains. “I was just explaining to her that if she moves through the process she won’t ever have to be back here again.”

“Seemed a bit more than that. Those girls knew Wifey hey?”

Novak’s cheek twitches a little under Victor’s scrutiny, which Victor is okay with. With Novak, it’s the little things that remind him that there’s a personality somewhere under there.

“Dea-- _Winchester_ , likes to make himself known.” Novak answers, then pivots. “I was moving Melanie, Miss Mars through the process as effectively as I could, to make her more comfortable.”

“While that’s admirable.” Victor admits, not completely the bad guy, no matter what others might believe. “Try to remember not to give the girls too much attention. It’s what they want.”

Dark lashes fan out over the tops of Novak’s cheeks. He inclines his head. “Yes. My apologies.”

It’s always been easier to talk with Novak when Donna is around. Something about the sunny woman softening them both. Right now, it is sharpened edge against sharpened edge, grating.

What Victor wants is to tell Novak, Castiel—not to apologise. What he wants to ask is what is up with the other man, offer as a kind ear if he needs to unload whatever it is that has been shadowing his attention for months. Years really, if Victor looks hard enough into it.

He wants to ask why it’s lightening now, tonight, when for the last few months it has seemed as though that shadow might cloak Castiel completely. But he doesn’t. He is not Donna.

Maybe, Castiel just needs to opportunity to talk to her.

Victor adjusts his belt. “Take Donna with you to booking. I want to empty it out by ten, with tonight’s fight, we’ll need it clear.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Castiel replies and turns to do exactly that.

 

_________

 

Victor is tired of fake conversation. Tired of asking detainees how they are, what their stories are as if most detainees haven’t already been vetted for ‘a good story’. Acting as though there aren’t a half dozen camera’s in his face at all times.

“Move!” Victor barks out, as his path is clogged by one of Johnson’s numskulls.

Predictably. Johnson makes their way over to him. “Sergeant,” they say. Standing between Victor and their crewmember as though their body is a physical wall. “You need to control your tone while talking to my crew.”

“Your _crew_ needs to watch where they’re going or I will charge them for obstructing justice,” Victor sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, stepping up to him. Not…threateningly…Jesus, but, enough to get his point across. “Mx Johnson,” he says levelly. “I’ve about reached my threshold of patience for your project. I’ve already caught your little squirrely one sneaking about in the break room fridge, out of bounds, for officers and administration only.”

The squirrely one, the one who usually just stands there and does nothing (Victor admires that at least the other one holds the definitely uncomfortable looking camera), flinches as though he’s been hit, eyes caught wide.

Johnson turns, fixing him with a look that has him fleeing off to find his partner. They breathe out a tight sigh, then turn back to Victor.

“I will make sure Andy and Alfie are more attentive to your needs Sergeant, and communicate with them the boundaries we agreed upon, if that pleases you?”

“I’m ecstatic.” Victor deadpans. Johnson’s lips quirk, but there’s mostly annoyance in their expression. Victor turns away from it. Driven by sudden hunger, tiredness, he turns left down the hallway instead of right to the offices.

Victor is about to call out for Donna to join in the break him, when he hears voices murmuring to each other. In a second he recognises Novak’s voice speaking, more energised and intense than Victor has heard it all evening.

“...distracted.”

“I think I’m the only one who’s noticed.” It’s Donna he’s speaking too, Victor realises. He should move aside and leave, but by the sounds of it Donna has gotten Novak to open up. “Don’t worry.”

Novak lets out a low groan. “It is infuriating. I wish, I, just knew. For certain. How can you tell?”

“I ‘d just ask.”

“Donna.”

“It’s not that hard Castiel. You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be...”

Slow, Victor shifts till he is out of sight just out the doorway. He can picture Donna’s face, scrunching as she concentrates to find the right words.

“You get a feeling for when someone likes you,” she is saying. “There’s this electricity, this spark. You look at them and they look at you. And neither of you can look away, or want to look away.”

Novak doesn’t reply.

“But I’m sure whoever he is,” Donna goes on, tone playful. “He is already head over heels for you.”

“You sound so confident.” Novak murmurs.

“Yeah? Well, I know _you_. You’re a great guy. A good officer. Anyone who you want would be lucky to have you.”

Novak laughs, a gruff sounding thing. “I’m flattered.”

Victor moves closer to the scene, creeping up as stealthily as he can, outfitted in full uniform as he is. His attention shifts for a moment to keeping his cuffs from jingling.

He hears Donna ask: “How are they going by the way? If you want to talk about it?”

Victor peers through the gap in the door jab—

Donna stands on one side of the kitchen bench,Novak on the other, Donna has unbuttoned her uniform shirt revealing her tank.Novak would never be so casual, he looks to be in the midst of paperwork, a pen turned in-between curled dark hair around his ear. One hand holds a glass of water, the other booking papers.

“Talking about it helps normalise everything. I don’t see my medication as a taboo.” He tells Donna. And Victor realises the conversation has shifted. “I’m well. Tired. I suppose. Early days were rougher but things are beginning to “even out” again, as some might say.”

Victor is familiar with Castiel taking medication, it is one of those factors he has to take in about his team members, the state of their mental health, any plans put in motion for management. He wasn’t aware of Castiel being so forthcoming about it, and even then, he hasn’t been informed of any _change,_ in medication. Surely that would have to be something of note, given how already gruelling the job can be on one’s mental wellbeing.

Perhaps Castiel has already informed Jody?

“Night’s like this don’t make it easy.” Donna muses. She pulls heavily from her mug.

“Certainly no.” Castiel says even as he untucks the pen from behind his ear and scratches something onto his paperwork. “It’ll only pick up from here I fear.”

“Mmm.”

There’s a moment or two of silence before Donna breaks it, scooting closer. “So,” though Victor can’t see her face he can hear her grin. “He’s who you’ve been texting all night?”  

“He…keeps odd hours.” Castiel replies a little cagily. Almost unbidden one hand reaches down to his front pocket. “I know I shouldn’t have my phone with me on duty—”

“Pfft. I won’t tell if you won’t say anything about this.” With a smile Donna reaches up into the cupboard above them, her hand disappearing from view before she pulls down a cookie, _one of Victor’s cookies,_ and smartly, plops it into her mouth in a single bite.

Victor stops himself from bursting into the break room by placing one grounding palm against the wall.

Those are _his_ cookies.

“Brave,” Castiel comments simply, one brow quirked. “Hendrickson will notice.”

“You could give me his a name, y’know.” Donna says, pretending not to have heard him.

Castiel’s pen skitters across the page. “P-pardon?”

“His name Castiel, I promise I won’t do a background check.”

Victor can’t quite see Castiel’s expressed with his face turned away like that, but Donna’s abrupt bark of laughter is enough to suggest Castiel’s palpable reluctance. She laughs and reaches out to swat Castiel’s arm.

“Gosh, your face! Alright, I won’t press.” she sniggers at his answering look. “At least tell me if he’s cute. Does he live in the county? What does he do?”

There’s a beat then: “He is very cute. Yes.”

Donna beams. “…so tell me _again_ why you _haven’t_ asked him out?”

“Honestly? I—I’m not sure?”

Donna cocks her head. “How are you unsure?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always.”   

“I’m just-I find myself lately questioning everything.” Castiel murmurs.

Donna’s easy grin slips. “How this...person feels about you?”

Castiel’s answer is grave. “Yes.”

“How you feel about them?”

Castiel sighs. “Most definitely. He and I we lead,” he pauses, choosing his words, “incompatible lives.”

Slowly, in realization, Victor feels a jolt of panic in his gut.

“Incompatible?” Donna laughs good-naturedly, reaching out to grip Castiel’s shoulder. “What is he? A criminal or something?”

Castiel’s answering smile is forced, pained.

And Victor can see the scene clearly now.

In short, the fool is in love.

The complete fucking idiot.

 

_________

 

Victor hates Fight nights.

“MOVE!” He practically screams as one of Johnson’s boys, as he blocks off the entry way to where Donna has called for assistance.

The cameraman slips on a cord smacking hard into the wall. Victor affords him little concern, and past the twerp, the scene in front of him is chaotic. Tran, Donna and Novak all surround a single arrestee. Novak indisposed, handles the camera while Donna and Tran are on the ground, Donna trying to keep the arrestees legs from kicking out dangerously, Tran pinning her torso to the floor, trying to bring her wrists behind her back, one of which, has broken free of its cuff.

“Don’t fight,” Tran is struggling. “Just stop. Be still.”

The woman screams, thrashing on the floor like a tantrum-ing child.

Tran gives up the pinning tactic, having now drawn the woman’s hands behind her back. She climbs up onto her knees, Donna follows suit and the two of them try to heft the woman off the floor.

“Stand up or I will make you stand up.” Tran says. Her smaller frame pulled taut like piano wire. She’s struggling to keep the arrestee still enough to even start bringing her back to standing. Donna moves in with her, reaching for the arrestee’s twisted belly cuffs.

“Stop resisting!”

The arrestee jerks, kicking out. “I AM THE VICTIM!”

“I said… stop—ugh, resisting!”

Victor rushes over, relieving Castiel of the recorder so his Officer can go for the assist.

Donna moves out of the way as Novak lunges, grasping the arrestee under the arms and bodily hauling her up off the floor, pressing her in against the wall.

She cries out: “He throws away my food! Makes me suck dick just so he can place down his bets! He throws away my fan! He—he—”

While it may look aggressive, Victor knows, Novak is using moderate force, every action, every hold he takes it with the utmost aim to do no harm. While the detainee squeals, causing more of a fuss than needed, Novak will be purposefully calm when he speaks to her, he will regain control, he will reinstate police authority.

At least, that is the process.

Instead, Victor watches, camcorder held in his hand when Novak _apologises._

“I—I’m sorry, ma’am,” says Castiel, almost too low to hear over the woman’s hysteria. “In cases of domestic violence, we have to take someone. We have to take someone and when officers arrived, you were the aggressor, we—”

“Castiel,” Donna warns. Castiel’s mouth snaps shut.

But the woman stops her kicking, and instead presses her forehead to the wall and starts to, honestly, bawl. Drunken, sloppy, but gut-wrenching crying. Deep and echoing in her chest. She goes near limp, and Novak must adjust his stance to keep her from collapsing to the floor.

“He. Ah-ah-attacked. _Me.”_ The woman turns her cheek against the wall, her sweat slick scraggily hair is shielding most of her face, stuck to her lips and chin. “You arrest me instead of him. He told me that that’s the way it would go down if I called the police.”

Novak’s grip slackens dangerously. “You called the police?”

Given an inch, the arrestee takes a mile. It’s the sickening crack Victor hears first, then the low-pitched wail, again, a second time.

“Castiel!”

Donna pitches forward, slapping her palm against hard plaster, in the space between where the woman was slamming her forehead and the wall.

Victor in the same breath jerks forward. “For fucks sake Novak! Tran, bring a chair.” he thrums with the desire to move in, but he has to keep a camera on them. The process. The process. Documentation, he must do things by the book. Tran darts past him, but when Victor hears her utter ‘excuse me’, he whirls around to see Johnson’s dickheads blocking the hallway again, a mess of cords and camera, while Tran tries to squeeze past them.

Victor stalks forward. “I swear if you don’t move that goddamn camera outta my goddamned hallway—”

Both boys flinch back, the one holding the camera doing so so harshly he almost drops it.

It’s a brief vindictive moment of satisfaction, but it is a diversion of Victor’s attention, he turns back to his officers.

Donna has taken the woman’s head into a safety hold, for as much as the Officer’s own safety as it is for the detainees. Though it keeps the woman from smacking her head against the wall, it doesn’t keep her from screaming nonsense.

“I’m sick of the way he talks to me, how he treats me!” Bawls the woman. A fresh wave of hysterics rolling over her, as Donna tries to lead them forward, she visibly struggles back.

Novak corrects his hold to meet resistance. He performs the action slowly, his fingers deliberate, but Victor has seen him repeat the motion just as precisely in a blur of movement too fast to track. In comparison, this is near fumbling. “S-stop resisting.’

The woman jerks, as though making for the wall again, but Donna’s hold, combined with Novak’s counter weight, keeps her from getting far.

“I called you for _help_ , and you do this to me?”

“Are you suicidal ma’am? Ma’am?” Donna keeps her voice calm, though her questions as all directed at assessing threat level. When she isn’t answered, she says to Novak. “We need to get her in a chair and get to medical, sir--”

“Hold her,” Victor answers Donna’s unspoken question. “Tran is on her way. Novak, get those belly chains gathered up. Handscum, keep her head tight. If she bites off anyone’s fingers, I sure as fuck ain’t cleaning it up.”

 

_________

 

Somewhere around three  AM Victor does damage control.

“She told us her boyfriend, or pimp rather, choked her. Though we didn’t see any evidence of that.”

Johnson stands behind the camera, the other two, Victor is glad to note, seem to not want to go near him. Good. Let them cower.

“She also told us that she started throwing punches, scratching at his chest, which we did observe on the scene.” Victor knows this to be true, he read Walker’s report himself.

“So, we arrested Tracy for domestic violence, and an admittance to solicitation.” He tells the camera, the luminescent lights glinting off the lens. “We have a way we do things. The law can seem hard, but it is the law.”

_________

 

Victor crosses paths with Castiel by D cell, a rare lull in the early morning. He stops the other Officer with an arm to his shoulder. “You alright?”

“Fine.” Castiel answers, a tense pillar beneath Victor’s palm, which he withdraws. “Thank you.”

That iciness, that distant remoteness, for once, Victor almost takes it personally. He regains control quick, going for easiness. He nods his head in the direction of the cell beside them. Now full. “Have a feeling a few of these ones might become regulars.”

Castiel hums in response.

“Speaking of…” Victor licks his lips, looking pointedly into Castiel’s face. “Winchester hasn’t been out much now-a-days, has he?”

Tact has never really been Victor Hendrickson’s forte.

Castiel glances back to Victor, his eyes are alert, gleaming molten. The speed with which Castiel’s entire demeanour switches catches Victor off guard. His face is pinched, a wildness about the expression, as though _daring_ Victor to step wrongly.

It is wrong to think it but Castiel hasn’t looked this _animated_ in _months_. He regards Victor with an unblinking gaze, that Victor suspects can dissect near any man’s soul.

In a blink it’s concealed once more, and Victor is left disturbed.

“I hadn’t noticed.” Castiel replies, smoothly. He turns. “Excuse me sir,” and tries to move past.

Victor feels the rebellious streak in him spike to meet Castiel’s wall.

“He’s a big personality, Winchester.” Castiel pauses mid-step. Victor swallows, tries: “I know Handscum’s certainly missed him. And the chief.”

Castiel doesn’t move. “You should be happy.” he intones, gaze intent somewhere past Victor’s shoulder. “One less person out there that we will eventually need to bring in here.”

“So you think he’s stopped hooking then?”

Castiel’s lips press together in a firm line.

Victor is sharp, knowing he has pushed enough, he steps back, both metaphorically and literally, allowing Castiel his space. He swerves the conversation; “How much leave have you accumulated, in your time here.”

Castiel blinks. “Sir?”

The confusion is answer enough for Victor. “Head on your break in ten, Novak.”

“Sergeant—”

“That’s not a request, Castiel. You’ve been on your feet for more than ten hours don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

He fixes Castiel with what he hopes is his most authoritative stare. A matter which is harder, given how evenly matched he has always personally felt their experience. Despite his higher ranking, Victor and Castiel have both been here at the County for the same amount of time, the only thing, Victor thinks, separating them in ranking is his own ambition outdoing Castiel. Who has never seemed particularly inclined to climb the “company ranks”.

“If you push yourself, you’ll burn out.” Victor says, knowing more than most that police work is one of those professions that can consume you if you let it.  He levels Castiel with a stare. “You are always a police officer, Castiel. Both on and off duty until you resign or retire. I need one hundred percent attention, one hundred percent from you, and from my team while you are on duty, and I need you all to uphold similar standards while off. Is that understood?”

Castiel straightens at that, and if Victor is mistaken, an argument flashes in his eyes that he chooses to swallow down.

Victor would welcome the challenge. On duty, off duty, in uniform or out, armed or unarmed, a police officer is always a police officer. There is no argument to be had about it.

Castiel might need the reminder.

“Even on leave.” Victor presses. “Until you turn in your badge, you are a representative and enforcer of our laws and morals. The community looks up to us.”

“Sir-”

“A role model.” Victor repeats. “There are many reasons this work is hard. That this work is draining. The ways it can affect us, our… personal lives.”

Castiel turns his cheek, eyes somewhere off at the wall.

Victor goes on. “But you chose these burdens because, like all of us, you want your work to mean something and make a difference.”

Castiel opens his mouth to say something, blue like chips of sharp glass.

“Am I wrong?” Victor cuts in.

Castiel snaps his mouth closed and looks up again to meet Victor’s eyes. There’s a completely foreign expression there on his face. Victor didn’t think it was possible, but it’s almost _angry_ _._ “No, sir.”

Victor lets out a breath. “I’m glad we understand one another,” he says the relief in him is a tenuous thing, shaky. Victor tries to hold onto it, lying to himself that it's more stable than it seems. “N-now, take a break Novak, you look like you’re going to drop at any moment.”

“Yes, sir.”

It’s said in Castiel’s usual gruff timbre, familiar enough that Victor is satisfied. He waves off his collegue, who doesn’t stick around for chit-chat.

It’s as he walks off that Victor remembers. He calls out. “Novak!”

Castiel stops. Turns. “Yes sir?”

“Best not to carry your phone on you while on shift.” Victor tells, him. Fixing Castiel with a pointed look. “We have rules for a reason.”

Castiel blinks, blushing a little at having been caught. “Y-yes sir.”

Victor nods dismissively. “I’ll clock you out. Head on now.”

Castiel does. Turning away, Victor catches out of the corner of his eyes, Castiel’s hand slipping into his pocket, already pulling out his phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously though starting now, I'll have to go quiet for awhile, but I promise it'll be worth it in the end!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jail: Las Vegas Season 4 Episode 12 pt 2
> 
> Fight Night takes a turn for the worst, when Officers take the law into their own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warning for implied sexual and physical assault**

**10:43 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 People have been asking after you tonight.

 

**11:02 PM**

< **You SENT**

 lil ole me? I’m touched

 

**11:02 PM**

< **You SENT**

 they saying nice things?

 

**11:06 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Most are asking where you have gone to.

 

**11:07 PM**

< **You SENT**

 cops or crims?

 

**11:07 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Some from both.

 

**11:08 PM**

< **You SENT**

 you have my permission to tell them all I’ve

grown too old for the street game. I’ve moved

on to bigger and better things. Greener pastures.

Juicier clientele. Did you know they’re making a film

about me? ;)

 

**11:09 PM**

< **You SENT**

 I’m a worker with style now

 

**11:09 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 I won’t tell them that.

 

**11:09 PM**

< **You SENT**

 at least hand out my business cards?

 

**11:11 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 That is not the least bit funny.

 

**11:12 PM**

< **You SENT**

 shut up. I’m hilarious

 

**11:13 PM**

< **Cas N SENT**

 I also know you don’t have business cards.

 

**11:13 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Considering you have a website that might be an

untapped source of networking for you.

 

**11:13 PM**

< **You SENT**

 you never did tell me what you thought about the site

navigation, you like it on the left or across the top?

 

**11:14 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 It looks squished on the left, but uneven across the top.

 

**11:19 PM**

< **You SENT** -

I’ll get Charlie to take a look at it again, or maybe I just

gotta do more stuff?

 

**11:20 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 You do plenty Dean. You’re a hard worker.

 

**11:22 PM**

< **You SENT**

 I should make that my tag line.

 

**11:27 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Dean Winchester: Hard worker. Emphasis on the hard?

 

**11:28 PM**

< **You SENT**

 I love it

_________

 

**12:19 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 I have just had to undress and redress a man who has

urinated on himself.

 

**12:19 PM**

< **You SENT**

 Wow, things seem fun over there

 

**12:19 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Not really.

 

**12:20 PM**

< **You SENT**

 I could come visit you?

 

**12:20 PM**

< **You SENT**

 see the old stomping grounds

 

**12:23 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Please tell me your joking.

 

**12:23 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

*you’re

 

**12:24 PM**

< **You SENT**

 more I think about it the more it seems like a good idea

 

**12:24 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Dean..

 

**12:25 PM**

< **You SENT**

 I’m getting in my car

 

**12:29 PM**

< **You SENT**

 oh! I’m turning the keys...

 

**12:32 PM**

< **You SENT**

 wonder how happy everyone’s gonna be to see me.

How about Sgt Vic hey? I bet he’s missed me

 

**12:31 PM**

< **You SENT**

 Cas?

 

**12:42 PM**

< **You SENT**

 Cas,  I’m just kidding, you know that right?

 

**12:43 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Yes.

 

**9:43 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Sorry

 

**9:43 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Fight night is always rather hectic.

 

**12:44 PM**

< **You SENT**

 I bet

 

**12:45 PM**

< **You SENT**

 over here Benny’s already drunk himself into a stupor.

And his pick isn’t even winning

 

**12:46 PM**

< **You SENT**

 Max went to out hours ago with someone who

definitely isn’t his boyfriend.

 

**12:47 PM**

< **You SENT**

 so, yeah, can’t imagine what the Strip would be like tonight

 

**12:48 PM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 He bet against Gunner Lawless?

  
**12:48 PM**

< **You SENT**

 Benny? Yeah I know, right? Damn fool.

 

_________

 

**1:05 AM**

< **You SENT**

 how’s it going over there?

 

**1:07 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Long. Tiring.

 

**1:07 AM**

< **You SENT**

 had a chance to catch the fight?

 

**1:08 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Not yet.

 

**1:08 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Do you know any hangover cures?

 

**1:09 AM**

< **You SENT**

 my uncle Bobby used to say that the best thing to

stop a hangover was to keep on drinking.

 

**1:11 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 How sage.

 

**1:12 AM**

< **You SENT**

 that or rubbing a lemon in your armpit and chugging  
A jar of pickle juice?

 

**1:13 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Anything comprising of ingredients that one might

find in a jailhouse?

 

**1:13 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 LEGAL ingredients.

 

**1:14 AM**

< **You SENT**

 LOL

 

**1:14 AM**

< **You SENT**

 why Cas? Are you drinking on the job?

 

**1:17 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 No, a detainee has come in with some particularly

painful symptoms.

 

**1:17 AM**

< **You SENT**

 more like a particularly sympathetic (handsome) face

 

**1:18 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 It is HER first time tonight.

 

**1:18 AM**

< **You SENT**

 girls can be handsome

 

**1:21 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Be that as it may, handsome women would have

little sway over me.

 

**1:22 AM**

< **You SENT**

 and every woman everywhere cried

 

**1:23 AM**

< **You SENT**

 It her first hangover?

 

**1:23 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Also her first arrest.

 

**1:23 AM**

< **You SENT**

 ouch

 

**1:26 AM**

< **You SENT**

 water’s the only thing I can think of to help.

That and a lone side cell with low lighting, don’t

think you’ll get one of those tonight though.

 

**1:27 AM**

< **You SENT**

 I can hear the chaos from my apartment. I swear.

 

**1:38 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 I procured her some water.

 

**1:39 AM**

< **You SENT**

 You big softie

 

**1:39 AM**

< **You SENT**

 Have you been on break yet?

 

_________

 

**3:43 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 I am on break now

 

**3:44 AM**

< **You SENT**

 sweet

 

**3:44 AM**

< **You SENT**

 whattaya wearing?

 

**3:45 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 You believe yourself very clever don’t you?

 

**3:45 AM**

< **You SENT**

 fine. Keep your secrets

 

**3:45 AM**

< **You SENT**

 I’ll just assume assless chaps and a moustache

 

**3:46 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 I don’t have any facial hair Dean. It looks unkempt

on the job.

 

**3:46 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 I am also still wearing my uniform.

 

**3:47 AM**

< **You SENT**

 kinky

 

**3:47 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 >:|

 

**3:47 AM**

< **You SENT**

 LOL

 

**3:48 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Although, technically I’ve taken my shirt off, so I’m

in my slacks and undershirt now.

 

**3:48 AM**

< **You SENT**

 ooh, yes daddy

 

**3:51 AM**

< **You SENT**

 wow, I regret that

 

**3:52 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Please don’t ever call me that again.

 

**3:52 AM**

< **You SENT**

 yeah bud, you got it

 

_________

 

**4:01 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Gunner Lawless doesn’t seem fifty..

 

**4:02 AM**

< **You SENT**

 dude’s ageless I swear

 

**4:02 AM**

< **You SENT**

 you watching TV?

 

**4:03 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Listening. Radio.

 

**4:03 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 I went out to my car. I was going to try and sleep.

 

**4:05 AM**

< **You SENT**

 I’ll quit bugging you then. Let you get some rest

 

**4:06 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 You don’t ‘bug’ me, Dean.

 

**4:06 AM**

< **You SENT**

oh I know

 

**4:06 AM**

< **You SENT**

 I’m distracting though ;)

 

**4:07 AM**

< **You SENT**

 sweet dreams Cas

 

**4:08 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

 Have a good night.

 

**4:08 AM**

< **You SENT**

 day actually

 

**4:09 AM**

> **Cas N** SENT

  :p

 

**4:09 AM**

< **You SENT**

 Dork

 

_________

 

**4:17 AM**

< **You SENT**

 I know you live a ways off from the jailhouse so if you

 find yourself after your shift too tired to drive home

you can rest up here?

 

**4:17 AM**

< **You SENT**

1830 N Pecos Rd apt 3

 

**4:17 AM**

< **You SENT**

 that’s my address btw

 

**4:18 AM**

< **You SENT**

  I have a REALLY comfy couch AND the best

Damn coffee you’ll ever taste

 

**4:21 AM**

< **You SENT**

 anyways, text me when you’re done either way  
I’ll be up

 

 

_________

 

 

After arrest and before trial comes jail

All suspects are innocent until proven guilty in a court of law

 

_________

 

Castiel gets back from his break to chaos.

It seems in the aftermath of Gunner Lawless and Velvet Thunder’s fight, half the city has taken to the various clubs and bars along the Strip to celebrate, where as the other half have done much the same to drown their sorrows.

The ensuring debacle of a booking centre is the result. Threaded through the general uproar, Castiel hears familiar raised voices, rattling of chains, a detainees shrieking laughter before they are ordered silent. He see’s Officer Handscum off in the corner escorting a particularly unclean woman towards the showers. The female detainee is non compliant, putting up a fight for Officer Handscum, but she is a slight thing. Still, Castiel straightens his shirt, starting toward her but he’s cut off by Officer Tran calling out; “Novak!”

He swerves. Officer Tran is helping another detainee up out of her seat, she’s handed them their papers and is in the midst of breaking them on through for their phone call. She looks just about as weary as Castiel himself feels.  

It’s amazing, the literal way Castiel can feel his inner walls climbing up. Especially when Tran tells him; “Hendrickson’s looking for you.”

There’s an edge to her tone that Castiel responds to with defensive sharpness, he knew he shouldn’t of taken his time, the few hours of respite, of sleep, of Dean, was not worth the sudden swell of stress that was threatening to take Castiel under. “I was on break.”

Tran looks at him uneasily. “It was about one of your girls that Walker and Donahue brought in.”

 

___________

 

Despite the over capacity County and Castiel's own exhaustion, he finds Hendrickson quickly, charging into  the waiting room, he catches sight of his Sergeant following two officers with his camcorder as they wheel the screaming detainee, strapped in a chair, past.

Castiel jogs to their side. “Vic--Sir?”

“Castiel,” Hendrickson falls back, the grim set of his mouth suggesting that whatever is to come is something he's far from happy about. He barely meets Castiel’s eye before he’s calling over another officer, offering him the camera. “Fitzgerald. Take over. You,” Hendrickson jabs a finger at Novak and stars off for the side cells. “come with me.”

Hendrickson is a man who keeps a brisk efficient pace, Castiel lengthens his own steps to keep up. He’s follows Hendrickson down past booking, past side cell D, E, F.

Hendrickson’s silence is weighted. Castiel asks: “Sir? Tran said, you were concerned about an inmate.”

There’s a miniscule jump in Hendrickson’s jaw. He turns them down another hallway of cells. “One of your girls came in on a code five. Well, no,” another twitch, although Hendrickson’s next works are almost a snarl. “Fucking Donahue didn’t call it in.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Walker, Adler and dumb-nuts didn’t follow protocol. There was no code call. Nothing, they brought your girl in in a chair restraint without documentation, without an accompanying officer.”

A needles pushes hard into Castiel’s chest, a sudden sharp pressure, from which anger oozes. Castiel only allows himself the briefest split second to feel it, then locks it away for later.

His own anger is not his priority.

“How did this happen?”

“Fucked if I know. Just what we needed tonight too. Goddamnit.” Hendrickson stops them in front of a lone side cell. It’s empty, Castiel can see through the glass, aside from a lone restraint chair that has been wheeled into the room. The detainee, although her long brown hair is all over her sweat slick face, hidden by a tight spit mask, is instantly recognisable.

Castiel’s gut lurches with sick guilt.

“Krissy,” he breathes, then demands of Hendrickson. “She’s a _child_.”

Hendrickson is looking away from him, searching through his ring of keys.

Weariness practically _radiates_ off him, the slump to his shoulders and the darker shadows under his eyes. His voice is low. “Apparently she was combative.”

The sight of Krissy Chambers, strapped up in a restraint chair, with a mask obscuring her features is near comical, for only the reason that is should be impossible. Krissy--a code five? Castiel's throat closes up at the back, so he has to swallow hard.

Krissy, combative? Sure she could be a handful, all the quick witted ones are, but. She has never been outright combative. A few kicks to the back of Castiel’s chair, but he always lets that go as being born more from childish frustration than any real desire to harm.

Has Krissy pushed her luck with an Officer not a lenient as Castiel? No, Kristen CHambers acts like a petulant toddler when under arrest because she knows with Castiel the rules are different. Another Officer would put Kirsten on guard, she would be on her best behaviour.

She would keep her mouth in check.

No amount of tongue lashing from a damn child would warrant _this._

Castiel glances up and meets Hendrickson’s sidelong glance. “Kristen is no threat. She has always moved through the process well. She--”

“Handscum said the same thing.” Hendrickson interrupts. His tone is cold but reasonable, the very same mask of decorum Castiel is unable to hold onto. “This is a major fuck up we have on our hands. Whether this force was warranted or not. Without goddamn documentation, shit.” he shakes his head, composure cracking the slightest bit. “Those responsible will be held accountable.”

As Hendrickson pulls out the key he needs, Castiel asks; “How long?”

Hendrickson pauses. “What?”

“If she was brought in without proper documentation, how long has she been in isolation? Restrained?”

Restrained, such a polite way to describe the hog tying the Clark County Detention Centre favoured. One of the County’s who still had the controversial process still in practise.

“Hour forty-five. Maybe a little closer to two, she’s been quiet. I don’t...” for the first time Hendrickson stumbles. He coughs clearing his throat and fits his key in the lock. “I want an assessment and, you know these girls.”

It comes out as a dry monotone. Hendrickson tilts his head, lowers his eyebrows, there’s an moment of almost camaraderie in the gesture, a brief moment when Hendrickson looks to Castiel, acknowledging him, and it might be a moment of connection, but Castiel breaks it off, reaching for the sliding cell door to pull it open.

“I’m trusting you to make the call,” Hendrickson says, "we are not letting Hannah and their children get wind of this. We handle this in house." He levels Castiel with a ordering stare.

Castiel nods.

Hendrickson stays outside while Castiel enters.

 

___________

 

Castiel isn’t looking into the camera, his eyes are far off, glazed a bit as though his mind is elsewhere. As though there is something over Alfie’s shoulder. “Cases of restraint abuse are rare, we- we monitor these things very tightly. The use of excessive force…’

He trails off. Words sinking into nothing.

Hannah, beside Alfie prompts him gently. “Castiel?”

Castiel jerk, blinking like a man just startled awake. “Yes?” he shakes his head as though to clear it, speaking to Hannah. “I apologise.”

“Don’t apologise. You seem,” Hannah works to find their words. “How--how long have you been awake now?”

Castiel blinks, it’s slow, weighted. Sluggishness exudes off of him, slides across the floor and encircles Alfie’s ankle. He shakes his foot to wake it, then lifts his camera with aching arms to roll his stiff shoulder, which only sends a spike of pain down his back. Damnit.

Castiel, instead of answering, goes back to his talking head. Voice low and gravelly, near robotic once more, as though what he’s saying are lines he has recited time and time before. Nothing natural, realistic, organic or feeling, merely, what he has been told to recite before.

“Excessive force, is a priority for the Clark County and Sheriff's department. Effective policing relies on having the trust of the community. Incidents such as this perpetuate mistrust. Policies and practices are put in place to ensure police do not use excessive force, particularly force which adds to the unacceptable levels of violence experienced by women of colour, African Americans, queer identifying individuals and--and individuals detained under the suspicion of solicitation and sexual misconduct.”

 

___________

 

Castiel Novak knows these things:

Though some departments cap the use of a chair restraint to two hours, the Clarke County Detention Centre policy allows jailers to restrain inmates for up to 16 hours.

Restraint chairs allow jail personnel to fasten an inmate to a chair at the wrists, ankles, thighs, arms and head. Restraint chairs are a tool. Considered antiquated in some circles, controversial in most.

Restraint chairs are used to protect an inmate from hurting themself or other inmates.

Restraint chairs are used for non-compliant inmates. They are a last resort.

The restraint chair process is a methodical one; when inmates are brought in personnelle with assistance from the detainment team, must assess the detainee, using the chair if required for the safe proceeding of the detainee through their processing. Documentation of the detainees state during assessment is mandatory. Three to four personnel present for an assessment is mandatory.

Documentation of a detainee being placed within the restraint chair is mandatory.

With a female identifying individual, a female officer must be present when it comes to restraint.

The restraint chair is not a punishment, it is a _tool._

Castiel also knows that restraint chairs render their occupants almost completely helpless. They are nowhere near comfortable. They are rather involved and serious bodily harm can be a consequence of their misuse. Individual officers must be properly trained to use a restraint chair, their use requires a well-trained and conscientious staff.

Anything short of that, and the chair becomes an opportunity for sadistic guards to abuse inmates, or for lazy or absent-minded guards to strap a detainee in and then neglect them. Punishing them.

Restraint chairs are a tool that is easy to abuse.

 

___________

 

Looking at Krissy now, Castiel remembers the booth attendant at Sexpo, so chipper even as she gave grave, damming statistics. The raw fear Castiel felt then hits him all over again. Aware of Hendrickson behind him, Castiel steps inside, closing the door with only a small gap, giving himself and Krissy some modicum of privacy.

As though such a thing was possible here.

Facing up to this moment quite so soon--Castiel can’t deny his time with Dean at Sexpo, well, his time with Dean at all has shaken him.

It’s hard to see Krissy’s expression through the netted mesh of her spit mask. She almost looks asleep.

Over the years, (and god, that Castiel has known this girl who is still, as far as he is aware, in school for years through solicitation, is depressing enough) Castiel has come to see Krissy in an all manner of states. Sleepy, inebriated, frustrated, angry, morose, cheerful.

She’s almost unrecognisable like this. Still. Quiet. As though she is something fragile and easily broken.

The thought rouses a sudden revulsion.

“Krissy?” Castiel starts forward cautiously, holding his hands out in a near placating gesture. “Kristen? I’m going to remove this mask.” Castiel kneels before her tied legs, reaching out. “I’m sorry it might tug a little.”

It’s almost impossible to flinch hog-tied as one is in the chair, but Krissy gives it a valiant try. She jerks, the chair clanks heavily, metal and plastic scraping, and Castiel retreats completely.

He can see through the knotted mess of Krissy’s hair and her mask that her eyes are wide and terrified, darting around the room in a way that suggest she’s not really registering anything.

Castiel takes a calming breath. “Krissy? It’s okay. It is me, Offi-Castiel. Dean's friend?”

Near feral eyes rest on him. Krissy is not gagged (that is not County practise) she can speak, but she says nothing.

Castiel raises his hands, making sure she can see them. “I’m going to remove you mask, please don’t spit on me.”

The sudden lucid indignance alight in Krissy’s expression has Castiel’s chest easing. Again, slow, narrating his own movements he reaches toward her, and peels off the mask.

“There.” Castiel says, setting the mask aside. “That’s, that’s better is it not?”

His voice is thin even to his own ears, especially as he takes in Krissy newly revealed face.

Her hair is in knots, plastered to her red face slick with sweat. Krissy does spit, but it is only to try and get her own hair out of her mouth. Without the use of her hands, there’s little she can do to move her own hair, Castiel doesn’t reach to her, knowing the touch would be rebuked.

His attention is caught the red-purple bruising around her right eye.

Krissy, silently, takes stock of her surroundings, her movement minimal by how her head is strapped to the chair at the jaw. There’s some recognition there when her eye, for one is swollen shut, falls on Castiel. Then her gaze shifts to past his shoulder, looking about the cell once more.

Her mouth flattens in defeat.

Castiel’s stomach roils. He works to keep his voice steady, he already feels the strain of having to crouch on the floor, his body immediately so heavy.

“You have had a tough night I see.” Castiel tries. He motions to her with his chin. “Your eye.”

Krissy’s expression shudders. She squeezes her one eye closed, wincing because of the other. The redness, Castiel realises looking at her is partly from her own tears. She cries silently now, mouth barely quivering.

Castiel pauses because he is still unable to find the right words to say. This is not like a battle, like the few life and death moments out on the Strip, but it feels just as crucial.

“We’ll get you to see Nancy. You know Nancy, she collects pins.” It’s true, Krissy has always had such nice things to say about the novelty pins Nancy likes to pin to her uniform. Whether in earnest or in sarcasm, the pins always get her attention.

Krissy sniffs wetly.

“You were attacked out on the Strip?” Castiel tries. The minute movement of Krissy’s head, as though a shake aborted half way through renders him near speechless.

“Y-you were hurt in detainment?”

Krissy averts her eyes, ever line of her tightening as much as it can bound. Again, she says nothing.

“Krissy,” Castiel pleds to the unresponsive girl. He swallows bile, once more reaching out slow, to the unclean hair that has fallen again in front of Krissy’s features, plastered to her lips. “Here, let me just-”

Krissy lets out a small pained sound, trying to move away from him.

“Apologies,” some nameless emotion chokes Castiel. His apology coming out thick and uncomfortable. “I, I just want to undo these straps? Nothing but the strap,” Castiel touches the spot on his own throat where the clasp restrains Krissy. “I will touch it with my fingers, but I will not do so without your permission.”

Krissy opens her eyes to look at him.

“Yes?”

She jerks her chin. The chair squeaks.

“I need your verbal consent, can you spe--”

There’s a barely audible rasp of pure exasperation. “ _Fucken, y-yes._ ”

It’s such a quiet broken thing, barely a mumble. Krissy’s head rolls loosely along her neck. A marionette without its strings, merely kept upright by the presence of thick bands around her throat, wrists and ankles.

Relief at hearing Krissy speak sets Castiel to work. He does so fast, with a minimal contact as he can, aware of Krissy strung tight like a guitar string. He works quickly, efficiently, and is at least relieved that the strapping has left no marks, at least some part of the process was followed.

He releases Krissy’s throat first, then audibly asks to work on her other bonds. He’s aware of Hendrickson’s eyes on him, and honestly pointedly chooses to release Krissy first without seeking prior approval. Castiel has made his decision.

Once released he makes to help Krissy to a bench, she breaks away from him, stumbles groggily to the seat herself and collapses into it, a mess of knees and elbows.

Being brought in on the chair she was not given a centre issue uniform, what little clothing she wears is in disarray, Castiel has seen worse, but makes a note alongside some water, to fetch her a shirt and sweatpants.

He notes every blemish, every bruise. Some wrap around Krissy’s right wrist. Other's her left. Where her skirt has ridden up, Castiel sees more bruising.

He sees what looks like blood, smeared on the inside of one thigh.

Castiel categories these small discrepancies, formulating them, and his gut drops to his toes.

Krissy, uncaring for her exposure, sits upright, every moment seems to give her a painful wince. Now that she isn’t forced to, she sits favouring one side, her left.

Castiel speaks slowly, choosing his words carefully as if Krissy is a landmine that might go off. “Are--the Officers who brought you in. Donahue and Walker, who, who met you for holding...”

He stumbles under Krissy’s burning stare. Her arms are still cuffed behind her back, Donahue or Walker will have the key. Castiel wishes he could afford her even that small comfort, that he could swap those cuffs for belly chains.

Castiel straightens, hands fisting hard into his slacks.  “It helps if you lie down.” He tells Krissy, who he catches wincing in pain as she moves her newly released limbs, rolling her head over her shoulder.

She glares at him.

“Part of training, we had to be strapped in the restraint chair in order to know--” how horrible it is. Castiel’s thoughts finish for him. He swallows. “It was an unfavourable part of basic training, although not nearly as frightful as the capsicum spray.”

The first time Dean heard some of the barbarism of Castiel’s basic training, he was cuffed in the back of Castiel’s car. He also laughed so hard when Castiel described the burning, and that one of his academy fellows had made the desperate mistake of rubbing his eyes, and then, sometime later without properly washing his hand, touched himself in the shower.

Dean’s repeated requests for Castiel to recreate the screaming had made a long evening shift rather amusing. Especially when Dean himself tried to act the scenario out.

Krissy follows the advice, turning her face to him so she lies on her side, facing the wall.

“I can get you some water, then we can get Nancy to check you out.”

Krissy’s shoulders hunch up to her ears, she doesn’t reply.

Castiel moves to sit on the bench on the opposite side of the cell. Giving Krissy her space.

There’s Hendrickson’s voice in his head. Every voice of every mentor, Sergeant, fellow Officer, Castiel has ever said. A literal chorus of; _don’t apologise don’t apologise don’t apologise_. Apologising admits fault, but what is this if not fault? To an atrocious degree.

Castiel opens his mouth, to start the conversation, about getting her cleaned up enough to go back to general population and get her through booking.That is the process. Krissy is injured, she must see Nancy. She is undocumented, they need to get her papers, get her out in booking and start her process. But the words he says instead – they are not orders or commands or echoes of some past directive. They are simply his own.

Castiel rests his elbows on his knees. “You can talk to me, Krissy.” He speaks to Krissy’s back. “I do not believe you were combative as you came in. Dean has given me much more trouble than you over the years and he was never—” Castiel’s throat closes. He tries again.

 “You can talk to me.” He knows he sounds like he's begging and maybe he is. “I am here to help you.”

It’s small at first.

Castiel hears it. But it doesn’t entirely register. Not until he rises from his seat and comes closer.

Krissy, painfully, wetly, awfully, _angrily,_ is laughing.

“Help me?” her words are churlish.

Castiel blanches. “Y-yes.”

Krissy laughs, and does spit this time, just shy of her shoulder, it dribbles onto the bench, globs onto the floor. She turns, still on her side, still lying down, but Castiel can see her.

He can see the smile twisting Krissy’s gnarly features that disorientates him anew, making his chest constrict.

Krissy’s laugh is an ugly bitter sound forced out of her sore throat. It is in that that Castiel sees the snarky little shit he is more accustomed to. He'd been so wrapped up in his own issues back then, so entirely wrapped up in whatever game he and Dean were playing out on the Strip that he hadn't really bothered taking the time to try and get to know Kristen Chambers outside of being an acquaintance of Dean. He finds himself regretting that a little now, especially for the way Krissy looks at him.

“Thanks.” Krissy rasps. “No thanks.”

“Krissy--”

Free of the chair when Castiel reaches for her this time, Krissy is able to lurch back from him, press herself hard against the wall with surprising speed regarding her condition. "Don't touch me." She near cries, Castiel backs right up. 

"Krissy, I'm-"

"None of you." Krissy hisses and her eyes dart to outside her cell. To where Hendrickson waits. "Not again. Not ever again."  
  
"Kirsten..."

But Krissy has rolled back over now. Any further attempts on Castiel’s part to speak with her are entirely shut down.

The cell door opens. 

“Castiel,” Victor starts, but Castiel stalks towards him, there can be nothing worse than having the both of them in here. He removes Victor and himself from Krissy's cell, and slides the door shut behind him.

“She needs a moment.” Castiel says, his stomach has been thrown into a lazy barrel roll. Acid rises in the back of his throat as he stalks down the hall.

 

_______

 

Castiel needs his own moment. He just needs to think.

His fingers ..clenching...unclenching. Other Officers are a blur to him as he passes, other detainees, Hannah and their crew, Castiel walks through booking without really seeing anything.

He needs to take a deep breath, so he can _think_.   

His body moves oddly, turning down hallways, there’s something pressing in on his chest but it is not panic, it is not fear as Castiel has become so accustomed. He needs to calm down, he needs--

Krissy needs some water.

Castiel has gotten used to feeling pulled in many directions. He rubs his palm across his eyes, feeling entirely helplessly human as he does so. He turns into the Officer’s wing, no non-personnel past this point. The ding of Fight Night closes behind thick doors. A ceiling fan rattles overhead, doing nothing to cool Castiel’s heated skin. He unbuttons the first suffocating button on his shirt, a second. An unprofessional third.

Exhaustion claws at his skin.

Krissy’s bruises, bruises Castiel _knows_ didn’t happen out on the Strip, are burned into his mind, behind his eyelids.

For the first time in a long time, he has no strategy, no plan of action. No direction.

He knows the process he is supposed to follow from this point. That does not involve getting Krissy some water. He reminds himself again, to find her some clothes.

He finds Gordon Walker with Donna Handscum watching replays of tonight’s fight in the break room.

Walker is all smiles, a cup of coffee in hand. “Fucken Lawless, eh? Like a goddamned _machine_ I mean--”

“Walker.” Castiel says, in a soft, dangerous tone. “Get up.”

Walker, still smiling, looks over confused. He doesn’t move.

Donna starts “Castiel?”

 

 Castiel stalks into the room, makes himself _known_ by standing close to Walker. There's a faint voice in his head, personal space, but Castiel ignores it. He demands: “You authorised Kristen Chamber’s detainment in cell C.”  it isn’t a question. Castiel feels his voice lower in a manner he knows might be intimidating to regular civilians.

To a fellow officer, it’s not a tone one would use.

Walker frowns, like he's not entirely sure where Castiel is going with this. “Yeah… you’re about,” he flicks his fingers in a dismissive manner, eyes still on the TV. “Heard there was a miscommunication.”

“A...miscommunication?” A part of Castiel, untouched by fury, feels nauseous, like the wind's been knocked out of him. His hands tremble, and he has to curl them into fists by his sides.

“Look, Donahue said as he brought her in that she had been combative. Adler confirmed and asked for a restraint. And while she looked compliant and little she had been recorded as acting out and flipping in a second.”  Walker gripes. He turns in his seat to look at Castiel. “Tonight’s been a mess. All over the shop, they decided with just the three of us we could bring her in. She’s a small thing, anyway.” Walker sighs wearily.

“I got the word for the chair and mask, so I did as I was told. It’s not my fault that Donahue didn’t press friggen film on the camera.”

“Did you see her? Did you see her acting combatively? Did you see her spitting?” Castiel growls. “Did you try and talk to her, or did you just slam her in a chair?”

Walker blinks, taken aback. “Donahue and Adler said--”

“If Donahue and Adler said you should jump off a bridge, would you?” Castiel feels his throat crackle, standing as he is, he towers over Walker but a betraying pressure behind his eyes makes him feel small. A protective rage sweeping through him “Perhaps that would be for the best, would certainly save this place some paperwork.”

“Castiel,” he hears Donna breathe out tensely beside him.  

“This isn't just about a complete shit show of a process. But did you even consider she was the victim here? Surely you must have noticed her eye. Her clothes.”

Walker’s expression hardens, a flash of rage in his dark eyes. “You think I’m one of those cops?” he demands with a little sneer. “One of those corrupt arseholes? The same breed of cop you see on the news abusing and shooting people like me? Fuck you," he spits viciously.

Donna tries to come between them. “Castiel. Gordon. That’s enough.”

Castiel ignores her in favour of staring Walker down. “I am saying this is a fuck up on your head.”

“I was just doing my job.” Walker repeats. “I get the request from a senior Officer. I go in for the assist. I was just doing my job, without asking questions. Which... may have been wrong of me.” Walker goes from righteous anger to slightly wounded.  “And I’m sorry. But you can hardly say Krissy Chambers is some delicate innocent child when the thing you’re most known for is sucking dick out on the Str--”

Castiel, doesn’t mean to lay hands on another Officer with agressive intent. He doesn’t _intend_ to, later he might say it is instinct, but, to what instinct it speaks to, Castiel doesn’t know.

Control.

Castiel has always prided himself on his control.

Castiel thinks of all this, while he already has Walker by the scruff of his shirt. He rips the other man out of his seat.

“The fuck Novak!”

_ “Castiel!” _

Castiel’s grip is fierce, he spins Gordon, backs him hard into the edge of the table, hard, for a moment, before stepping back. Walker is up out of his seat now, Castiel can look him in the eye.

“What any one individual chooses to put in any orifice has little bearing on the respect and protection we owe them as a human being.” 

Donna lurches. “ _CASTIEL_!”  Hands clasp around his biceps ripping him back. Castiel stumbles but regains his form quickly while Walker leans back on the table eyes wide.

“Jesus Christ.” He struggles, shooting Castiel a furious glare. “Fuck? Novak?”

Donna tugs on Castiel hard, trying to pull him back, her voice a muffled fuzz in his head, trying to calm him down. Castiel ignores her, but he doesn’t resist her hold. “We always must be asking questions. _Why_ we do things, _how_ we do things. People’s lives depend on us.”

Walker snarls. “She sat in a chair for a couple hours she’s hardly traumatised.”

“We will see if that’s all she has had to cope with, when Nancy gets through to her about SAK results.”

It’s as though Castiel has brought the entire jailhouse to silence.

Donna gasps, her hand releases Castiel, coming up to her mouth, a rare break in composure. Walker’s eyes widen, his lips part, then a deathly understanding falls over him, clouding his already dark eyes.

He bows his head. “Castiel, I’m--”

Castiel has no time for apologies especially apologies pertaining to him, as though _he_ is the wronged party. He turns, demands of Handscum. “Where is Donahue? Adler?”

When she doesn’t answer him promptly, he turns on his heel. They must be here somewhere.

“Castiel!” Donna grabs for him again. Her grip is fierce fit to bruising on his skin. She whirls him around, strength in every line. “No,” she tells him. “I’m calling this. Home, now.” and there's a fierce edge to her voice that Castiel hasn't heard for quite some time now. “I’ll talk to Jody, we’ll look into this. We’ll—”

“I was only there for the detainment.” Walker interjects roughly, touching his side. He looks to Castiel. “I didn’t know.”

“You should be looking for the signs. Always.” Castiel snarls in his direction, Donna squeezes his arm.

“Go.”

Castiel turns to her. “But Krissy--”

“I’ll look out for her, and talk her through the kit, if-if she decides to take it." There's a solemnity to that, as Castiel and Donna both know, the kits are rarely taken.

"We’re not talking about this.” She looks pointedly to Walker, who despite his dark complexion looks a little ghostly. As though what Castiel has said is like a literal punch thrown at him.

Donna squeezes Castiel’s arm, her hand siding down to meet his hand. She squeezes that too, and sighs softly. “You’re officially relieved of duty tonight. Go home.”

"You do not have the kind of authority."  Castiel intones, hoping his voice isn't shaking as much as his hands are.

"I have all the authority I want if it keeps you from getting suspended. Or worse."

The  _or worse_ is a heavy weight Donna levies over Castiel's head, at least somewhat filtering through, collecting himself, Castiel releases a heavy breath and he finds himself nodding. An icy burn works its way down his throat, behind his eyes, into every limb, every movement. He needs to calm down, he needs to sleep, he needs…

To tell Dean about Krissy. Dean. He needs Dean. To be close to him.

It’s that sudden compulsion, that sudden _need_ , that sends Castiel walking.

Walker tries: “Castiel--”

“Save it.” Castiel declares, in a low, barely audible rumble. He doesn’t turn around, he only pauses in the doorway before continuing on. “You’ve done enough.”

 

_______

 

**4:21 AM**

< **Dean SENT**

 anyways, text me when you’re done either way  
I’ll be up

 

**6:18 AM**

**> You SENT**

Are you still awake?

 

**6:23 AM**

**< Dean SENT**

Awake is my middle name

 

**6:23 AM**

**< Dean SENT**

What’s up buttercup?

 

**6:24 AM**

**> You SENT**

I want to see you

 

**6:25 AM**

**< Dean SENT**

You have my address, Handsome

 

**6:26 AM**

**> You SENT**

I will be there in fifteen.

 

**6:26 AM**

**< Dean SENT**

Doors unlocked


End file.
